Love Songs
by katherineluck
Summary: Twenty years before the Phantom terrorized the opera, an unknown (and as yet unmasked) singer named Erik falls in love with a penniless young seamstress with an astonishing voice named Carlotta. Will the ingénue betray her secret lover to become the prima donna of Paris?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Paris, 1875_

It seemed like a dream, his song, his kiss…

Carlotta Giallo stepped out to the edge of the enormous stage of the new Palais Garnier opera house and sighed deeply. She stretched her stiff arms over her head, her footsteps echoing into the depths of the dark, empty auditorium. For the last ten hours she had been hunched over a pile of musty cloth, stitching gold trim onto the hems of the exotic Spanish costumes from the theater's latest opera, _Don Giovanni_ Her eyes swam blearily from the gaudy tinsel and glass gems which she had wrestled back into place with her needle and thread. The costume workshop had been dim and stuffy, overcrowded with thirty poorly-paid seamstresses like herself. Carlotta smiled wearily.

The only thing which made her job bearable — indeed, which made it wonderful—was the fact that the singer's rehearsal studio was located directly above the costume workshop.

Carlotta took several wide steps, her skirt swishing around her ankles. The company had just started rehearse a new opera, _Love Songs, _that afternoon. For the last four hours, she had been able to listen to the chorus practice their roles. There were some beautiful voices in the chorus this year, but not one of them could do justice to the lead role.

Carlotta gazed out at the deserted, cavernous theater. She was completely alone: all the stagehands and performers had gone home hours ago.

She closed her eyes and began to sing. Softly at first, then with growing intensity.

"_Ah, perhaps he is the one my lonely soul desires…that I would summon up in a dream!_"

Her voice echoed fluidly through the deserted auditorium, arcing and resounding as it never did when she sang at home or in church. She spun lightly on her toes; the sad, sweet music welling up inside of her.

"_I wish to be happy! Toward new joy I want to fly, on the wings of my desire!_" She raised her arms, imagining the hero was beckoning to her.

"_Love pulses like the heart of all nature, love surrounds earth and all the stars…_"

Carlotta froze, her mouth still open. Somewhere on the other side of the dark stage, a tenor voice had begun to sing. Was she imagining it? Her eyes scanned the thick shadows, unable to make anyone out.

She hesitated, then sang, "_What do you say, my troubled heart? No one has yet awakened love in you…_"

Closer now, in the darkness to her left, she heard, "_A mysterious love, as high as heaven…"_

Carlotta couldn't imagine who the singer could be, but his voice stirred her to the bottom of her soul. She closed her eyes and, abandoning reason, sang the tender duet with him. She heard his voice approach, closer and closer in the dim space, until his warm breath grazed her neck. She shivered, but felt no fear.

"_Toward new joy I want to fly, on the wings of my desire!_"

They sang the closing notes of the duet together, their voices fading to silence in the vast, dark space. Carlotta heard the tenor's breath gently sigh out, felt it warm her cheek in the darkness. She shivered with a mixture of uncertainty and unexpected longing. This was the point in the song when the hero was to kiss the heroine.

Carlotta felt a hand hesitantly touch her shoulder. The fingers lightly caressed the lace at her collar. Her eyes remained closed as her mysterious singer's lips brushed hers. Softly at first, then with a longing heat that made her want to melt into his arms. Her entire body felt weak and powerless, except for her lips, which met his eagerly, moving with reckless abandon in a burning kiss.

_What on earth was she doing?!_

Carlotta's eyes flew open. She pulled away from the man, whose face she still could not see in the dark.

Shocked by her behavior, a hand hovering at her lips, she dashed into the wings and out the stage door to the street without a backward glance.

_Babbo would have me put away in a convent if he found out,_ she thought grimly as she hurried down the ill-lit sidewalk. Still…her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss, and she ached to return to the stage and his embrace.

Carlotta ran up the three flights of stairs to the aging apartment that the Giallo family occupied. She paused outside the mud-spattered door to smooth her hair and compose her face. It would be no good if Babbo saw a blush or downcast eye and began to question her.

"Ah, Carlotta, home so late! What about dinner? Here, sit, eat, eat!" Mamma rose from her chair in the corner of the small room, which served as bedroom to Nonna, Babbo and Mamma — as well as kitchen, dining room, and living room for the entire Giallo family.

"_Perché cosí in ritardo? Povera ragazza!" _Nonna, Carlotta's grandmother, rose as well and manhandled Carlotta into a chair at the small kitchen table. Carlotta giggled and sat, glancing at her father. Babbo was absorbed in his Italian newspaper, already two months old by the time it arrived from relatives in Rome.

"Sorry I'm so late. _Don Giovanni _closing this week, but I guess they're planning to sell the costumes or rent them out to other theaters or something. We all had to stay late trying to make them look presentable."

"_Non parlare più! Mangi!_" Nonna shoved a plateful of _cavolo imbottito _and a chipped mug filled with red wine at Carlotta. Carlotta dug into the stuffed cabbage, which she recognized as having come from Mamma and Babbo's vegetable stand. Though they hadn't managed to sell the cabbage that day, it was fresh and delicious.

"Where's Zia?" She asked between mouthfuls.

"She and Benito went down to the tobacco man for a paper and Babbo's cigarettes. They should be back any minute."

"We're already here! Bad news for Italians in the headlines tonight!"

Carlotta's aunt, Zerlina, entered in her customarily abrupt way. Only a few years older than Carlotta, she had lived with the Giallo family ever since she and Babbo lost their parents. To Carlotta, she was more like a big sister than an aunt. Nevertheless, the entire family had called her Zia, or Auntie, ever since Carlotta had learned to lisp out the word.

"Here's your _sigaretta, Babbino_." Zia tossed the cigarettes into her elder brother's lap. He grunted at her, not taking his eyes off the text of his newspaper.

Carlotta felt a chill slide down her spine, and glanced up at the open doorway. Her cousin, Benito, stood framed by the chipped wood. Watching her. Carlotta lowered her eyes to her plate.

"You were late tonight."

His low voice made her want to tremble, and she didn't know exactly why. A year younger than Carlotta, her parents had expected him to marry her ever since he was born. The Giallo family had decided to bring him with them to France when they immigrated over a decade ago. Carlotta had known and lived with Benito since she was nine, but somehow in recent years she had acquired an inexplicable feeling of discomfort whenever she was with him.

"Work. It ran longer than usual," she replied, putting a forkful of cabbage into her mouth in hopes of discouraging conversation. Benito continued to gaze down at her.

"Shut the door, Benito! You're letting in the stench from the Turanelli's glue pots! I swear to you, that family is mad to try to make money off of those ugly little figurines of theirs," Zia said as she marched over to Carlotta and stole a sip out of her wine cup. She leaned down to whisper in Carlotta's ear. "And where were you really, hm? Out making a rendezvous with some handsome opera star?"

Carlotta felt her face grow hot. She ducked her head, but not before Benito's saw her blush.

"What did you mean, bad news for Italians in the headlines?" Mamma shooed Zia away from Carlotta so she could eat in peace. Zia strode across the room, snatched the Italian paper from Babbo, and tossed it aside.

"Look at this, Brother!"

She thrust the evening edition of the _Times_ at him. Carlotta always marveled at the way Zia bullied Babbo. Carlotta couldn't imagine what he would do if she or Mamma, or even Benito, ever grabbed anything out of his hands.

"_Donnaccia!_" Babbo swatted at his baby sister indulgently. "What's so interesting? Famous American singer is coming to town … war veterans meeting to discuss something-something conditions … ah, yes, I see it! This _is_ bad news. Very bad."

"What is it, Babbo?" Mamma leaned over the back of Babbo's chair, a worried frown creasing her face.

"The king is up to his old tricks again. Another mistress, another _bastardo_ on the way."

Mamma sighed sadly and rapidly translated for Nonna.

"It's all just anti-royalist propaganda!" exclaimed Zia, pacing the bare wooden floor. "If Victor Emanuel would only step down…"

Carlotta felt her mind wandering away. Who was that man in the theater? Had she, in her exhaustion from a long day of dreary sewing, simply imagined him? His voice was so beautiful; more like a dream than any real man's could be. She touched a finger to her lips. His kiss…no one had ever kissed her like that before.

Carlotta felt Benito's eyes on her. She quickly lowered her hand and took a sip of wine.

"I think Prime Minister Minghetti is right: Socialism will not be at all bad for Italy. The king has done nothing to help the country, besides contributing to the birth rate," Benito said, speaking to Babbo, though his eyes never left Carlotta's face.

"Bah! Mark my words: nothing good can come from the socialists. You will see."

Babbo shook his finger at Benito, who scowled but was loath to challenge Babbo directly. Zia, however, had no such compunctions.

Carlotta could hear her aunt's voice making a strident reply, but she just couldn't concentrate on the words. It was like this every evening: debates about Italian politics, recitations of the evils of the encroaching Austro-Hungarian Empire, breathless tales of the alluring dangers of Parisian life contrasted with the humdrum safety of the traditional Italian lifestyle.

Carlotta finished her wine and leaned her chin in the palm of one hand, the fingers of the other tracing the rim of her mug. Those warm, soft lips growing more insistent; more passionate. Those hands on her shoulders, guiding her to press against the unseen length of his body …

Who was he? Was he real or a dream?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Mother refused to let me go out altogether this morning in my new dress — can you imagine? She actually accused me of being either a café girl or a whore!"

"Well, you gotta admit you were pushing it with that skirt — the thing's up past your ankles!"

"Well! At least _I've_ never consumed three glasses of absinthe with the stage hands and then danced the can-can so the whole world can see my bare legs!"

Carlotta giggled at the seamstresses across the table, stitching and bickering at lightening speed, as usual.

The costume workshop was located in one of the sub-basements of the theater. It was a good twenty feet below ground, and the musty, worm-gnawed odor of old soil leeched into the fabric and humans who stayed too long. Carlotta had long since grown accustomed to the absence of natural light and fresh air in her work place. The thirty or so other seamstresses, most of them the children of Italian immigrants like herself, sat hunched around the huge table which dominated the dim room. Dozens of dripping candles were clustered on the table, supplementing the feeble gas lights which hung on chains from the low ceiling. Carlotta had learned to be wary of the candles, lest she set her thread or hair on fire.

"Gianni took me to the Jardin du Luxembourg the other night, did I tell you? Well, that sly devil bought me an ice and a balloon and one of those crazy whistling wooden birds … and then made a grab for my knee!"

"What did you say?"

"_I _didn't say anything, but my hand certainly sang a song on his cheek!"

"Less chatter, girls! Concentrate on your work. I want those ruffles symmetrical — each and every one."

The studio supervisor scowled down at the seamstresses as she paced slowly behind their chairs. The young women bent their heads over their work and stitched in silence.

Overhead, there was a commotion of muffled footsteps and muttered conversation, muted by the thick beams of the ceiling. Carlotta perked up instantly. There were people in the singers studio directly above them. Now they'd have some music in this stuffy place!

As the shop supervisor settled in behind her high desk, the seamstresses began to whisper tentatively. Carlotta strained her ears over their rustling voices to hear the singers above. A soprano — probably playing one of the lesser roles—was warming up with perilously high scales.

_She'll strain her voice for good if she goes on like that so early into rehearsal_, thought Carlotta.

A bass, his low voice made even more rumbling by the thickness of the ceiling, began to practice his lines in a speaking voice, badly mangling the syllables. Carlotta winced.

A silence fell in the singers' studio. _They must be getting ready to begin_, Carlotta thought, her heart beating a bit faster. It had been so long since her mother had given her a singing lesson. Listening to the singers in secret was the only way she could continue to learn. The seamstresses next to her began to murmur more boldly. Carlotta willed herself to block out everything except the muffled sounds above her.

A piano struck a series of rapid chords above. Carlotta gripped her fabric tighter and felt an uncontrollable smile curve her lips upward. She loved music; loved opera above all else. When she had been a very little girl, her mother had sung to her for hours every day. Marriage to Babbo had cut short a promising career as a singer, but that hadn't dampened Mamma's love of music. At least, not at first. As the years wore on, Mamma sang less and less.

The piano wound up its jangling introduction, and suddenly Carlotta found that she could barely prevent herself from jumping out of her chair in shock.

_Just overhead, she could hear the voice of the man who had kissed her!_

Stunned, Carlotta strained to hear. Was she mistaken? Was that really him?

Yes, it had to be. She had never before heard such a flexible tone; such a rich lower register complimented with such sunny high notes.

Who was he?

It was apparent that he was playing the hero in _Love Songs_. Carlotta wracked her brain, trying to recall who had been cast as the male lead. He was a foreigner — that much she remembered. A strange man from a strange land, fresh from a year-long tour of the concert halls of Europe. Not a star, but poised to become one.

"Shh!" Carlotta hissed at her softly giggling neighbors. Her eyes latched on the ceiling, as if by force of will she might be able to see through the dusty wooden beams.

The tenor's fluid song rained down on her like liquid gold — muted though it was. How could anyone human sing so beautifully?

Carlotta felt the supervisor's eyes upon her. She quickly bent her head over her section of cloth, her heart and mind working furiously.

She had to see his face. Just once. Before he stopped singing, left the singers' studio, and vanished into the sea of faces that came and went from the theater every day.

But how was she going to manage it? The seamstresses were scheduled to work twelve hours a day. Their work hours were closely monitored. No breaks except a half-hour lunch period. No leaving the shop for any reason, unless summoned by a superior, or sent on a specific errand. Of course, an accident might suffice to get her out of the shop …

Carlotta pursed her lips and briefly considered pricking her hand with her needle just enough to draw blood. Then she might claim to need a moment to step out and bathe her wound in the water facilities on the next floor. But she knew that her supervisor would refuse this, simply handing her a convenient strip of muslin to dab at the blood with. Only if she had opened an artery would she manage to leave — but then it would be straight to the charity hospital. Or the grave.

Carlotta listened to the beautiful voice tensely. Then suddenly, an idea dawned in her mind. Why not use the plot of the very opera they were rehearsing as an inspiration? Carlotta's eyes lit up with mischief. The heroine in _Love Songs_ spent the opera slowly wasting away from consumption, coughing heavily and frequently. Why not …?

Delicately at first, then with increasing furor, Carlotta began to cough. She got a sound thumping on the back from her neighbor, but coughed on as loudly and dramatically as she could. Carlotta could hear the anxious concern in her fellow workers' voices, then she saw the supervisor approach, frowning in annoyance.

"Try to breathe it off, Mademoiselle Giallo. Take a deep breath."

Carlotta hacked harder.

"Then just go and get a sip of water, for goodness sake! You're no use to us like this!" The supervisor snapped, irritated that Carlotta's wheezing had halted all work in the shop.

"Shall I go with you, Carlotta?" her neighbor asked anxiously.

Carlotta shook her head furiously, then stumbled out of the room.

Giving a few last coughs out in the hall for credibility, she glanced at the closed door to the costume studio, then dashed down the hall to the stairs, barely able to suppress a giggle.

She had to hurry. She knew that the solo her mystery man was singing, _My Soaring Spirit,_ was not terribly long. She had to see him while he was still singing, or she'd never be able to puzzle out who he was. Carlotta dashed up the narrow, dark stairs, her old-fashioned skirt too bulky to permit her to move fast. She reached the basement landing and tried to catch her breath. Down the hall she tiptoed, barely glancing at the dozens framed paintings, daguerreotypes and photographs of famous singers that lined the walls.

There it was. The door to the studio. Carlotta held her breath and inched up to it.

Cautiously, she reached out her hand and laid it over the cool brass knob. Her heart thrumming in her ears, she turned it slowly, with minute movements, and eased the door open a crack. If she was caught, she could very well be fired.

"That was better, Erik, but it's still really breathy. You sound more like you came out of a pitched battle than a spring garden," someone deep within the room was saying.

"That's what I'm going for — not the battle bit, but the breathless, overexcited thing."

"Well, try to make it a little less breathless, will you?"

Carlotta heard a good-natured grumble, then the piano struck the opening chords to the solo again. She applied her eye to the tiny crack in the between the door and the frame, scarcely daring to breathe.

A tall man moved into her line of view, standing under the ruddy-yellow electric lamp not far from the piano. He stood motionless until his cue notes, then he parted his lips and began to sing.

_It was him!_

Carlotta watched, dumbstruck, as he sang the passionate, tender solo. He was impossible handsome, not shaped like any singers she had become accustomed to seeing. This man had not enjoyed the good life singing under the sun-drenched grapevines of Tuscany. His body was lean and well muscled. He looked more like a stagehand in charge of the heavy scenery than a delicate, rotund vocal cord pamperer.

Carlotta was hypnotized by his finely chiseled face, his sharp blue eyes. She had never seen him around the theater before. He must have just returned from Europe within the last month.

He finished his song, and Carlotta felt almost heartbroken at the silence which his voice left behind.

"That was better, Erik, better — but you still sound like an asthmatic goat."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Arkinson!" one of the altos scoffed.

"I think he's coming along fine," the bass rumbled from behind the piano, suddenly moving toward the slightly open door. Carlotta's eyes widened in alarm.

"I have forgotten my score for Act Three. Don't wait, keep going, young man. You're doing marvelously!"

Carlotta stood straight up and bolted away from the door. She couldn't afford to be caught peeping at the singers. They were so touchy about common folk listening to them before they felt their performance was perfect. Trying to tiptoe on the creaky boards, yet nearly running, Carlotta darted through the hall, back down the dark staircase, and to the door of the costume studio. Out of breath, she smoothed her hair and tried to look worn out from coughing rather than running.

"Better? Good. You took long enough. I'm deducting twenty minutes from your lunch for the time you were away," the supervisor scowled.

Flushed with more than just annoyance at this injustice, Carlotta slid into her cold wooden chair.

She had seen the face of her mysterious singer. And she knew his name. Erik_._

As she stitched, Carlotta felt a prickling of restlessness. She wasn't satisfied with knowing his name, with having seen his incredibly handsome face. She had to meet him. She had to find a way to make contact. But how?

By five p.m. his first rehearsal of _Love Songs _had broken up, and Erik felt profoundly relieved. It had been almost exactly a year since he'd first sung this role in Spain — the first performance on his tour of Europe. It felt good to be back in the role of Alfred, but the tedium and repetition of rehearsal was already starting to wear on him.

_If it's this hard only on rehearsal in, how bad is it going to be a month from now?_

Erik groaned softly to himself as he gathered up his loose sheet music and pages of scrawled ideas. Maybe it wasn't the rehearsal at all. Maybe it was the knowledge that tonight he had to go visit his mother.

Erik set off on foot toward the quartier in which his mother had recently taken up residence. As he walked through the orange sunset, he watched the buildings and homes go from upscale modern structures to shabbily genteel houses to out-and-out poor tenements from the past centuries.

If only he could get her out of this particular arrondissement! But these days Erik couldn't even get her out the door of her apartment, so how could he ever make her move?

Ever since he'd been a child, his mother had shown certain tendencies, certain eccentricities. Nothing serious — it just made her unique. When Erik's father died four years ago, these little quirks and oddities had swarmed up to take over her life. Before Erik had left for his tour of Europe, she had been able to go out once a week to do her grocery shopping, Sundays to put flowers on her husband's grave, and every time Erik had a performance she managed to rouse herself and make the trip to watch him.

When Erik had returned home last month, however, he found an ugly surprise waiting for him. His mother had lost all ability to set foot out of the drab apartment she had moved to. She couldn't get food from the market, she couldn't go pick up the checks he had been sending her from abroad, she couldn't even go next door to ask her neighbors to help her.

It had taken several alarming days to track her to her new home, and now, Erik sometimes wished he hadn't managed to find her. Such thoughts immediately caused him great guilt and self-loathing. But it was the truth. She was so unhappy, maybe it would have been better if she was resting with Erik's father under all the soft spring grass.

The dingy tenement loomed into view. As always, Erik shuddered at the sight of it. Why on earth had she felt the need to move _here? _The neighborhood was bad, the occupants of the building barely spoke French, and it was more than a hassle for Erik to get across town from either his own apartment or the theater. Erik resisted pinching his nose at the smell of rotting tomatoes and old sausages which always hung in the air around here. Erik opened the broken front door and sprinted four flights up to his mother's place.

The scarred wooden door had lost its number since the last time Erik had visited. Had it really been a whole week? His mother was going to flay him alive for neglecting her for so long.

Erik raised his fist and pounded hard on the door. His mother's latest paid companion, Nanette, was a slow, groggy young girl who seemed always to be sleeping. Erik hoped he'd knocked hard enough to rouse her.

The door slowly opened, and Nanette, rubbing her eyes and yawning, stepped aside to let him in.

"Evening, Nanette. How's she been doing?"

The servant shrugged.

"Fine, I guess. She's none too happy that you've taken so long visiting, though."

Erik nearly groaned aloud at this.

"Well, it has been busy over at the theater, of course."

He paused. Why was he explaining this to Nanette? She didn't care. Maybe he was just rehearsing his excuses.

"Is she in her bedroom?

Nanette nodded, yawning again.

Erik steeled himself. She was his mother, for goodness sake — not some horrible beast. He walked softly down the dark hallway, scuffing his shoes on the threadbare carpet. Erik tapped lightly on the closed door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Maman."

"Erik?"

"Of course — how many other young men do have knocking on your door after dark?"

Erik swung the door open, forcing a jolly smile.

"Well, how are you doing, Maman? You're looking good. Did Nanette do that curly-thing to your hair?"

"Nanette!" his mother snorted from her bed, a pink blanket pulled up under her chin despite the room's stuffy closeness. "That girl is worse than useless. She hasn't been out but twice to do the shopping this week, and I've had no new books or newspapers at all since you came last, and I can't imagine what the kitchen looks like."

"Why — are you too fine to go and have a look at the interior of your own kitchen?" Erik forced a teasing grin as he grabbed a chair, though his heart sank.

"Well — well, there was a noise on Sunday!"

His mother tugged the blanket up higher, so her lower lip barely showed. She looked impossibly small in her bed; more like a child than a mother.

"There was a noise on Sunday, so you haven't set foot in your kitchen?"

"I think there are roaches in the kitchen. Or a rat. I heard _something_."

"Great — roaches or a rat in the kitchen? How about a new apartment, Maman? I can afford it, really. We'll get you set up in a nice place over on the other side of Paris, maybe near a park, what do you say?"

Erik leaned closer to her, his face beginning to show his concern.

Erik's mother drew her chin out from under the blanket.

"I'd be better if you'd come live with me."

"Oh come on, Maman — don't start this again, please!"

"You know, Erik, in my day when a child grew up they didn't leave their widowed mother alone. They stayed with them, took care of them. It's always been that way. But now, now we're all modern, aren't we? Now we just throw our old folks out when we're tired of them."

"I'm not tired of you. I just need a place of my own."

"You aren't on your own — not really! You live with that policeman friend of yours."

"Like I've always said, Maman, you're welcome to come on over and visit with me and my old pal Nadir Daroga any time. Come on over and join our bachelor pad!" Erik laughed.

"That's not funny! I'm lonely here, Erik."

Erik sobered instantly and pulled his chair closer to her bed.

"I'm sorry, I really am. But I can't come live here with you. I'm a grown man. I need my space. Besides, you aren't alone. I'd never leave you on your own, you know that. You've got Nanette, and I visit as often as I can."

"Huh!" his mother snorted, rolling her eyes at him. "You call once a week 'often,' do you?"

Erik could have kicked himself. He'd walked right into that.

"I never see you anymore. I might as well have no son at all. Do you think about me at all when you're not here? Hm? Because I think of you constantly. You're all I have, Erik."

She seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into the bed. Erik grabbed her hand and held it tight in his.

"I know you feel that way, but if you'd just make an effort to get out — to try at least, I know it's hard. Well, I think you'd feel a whole lot better ..." Erik trailed off, feeling ineffectual.

His mother glared at him.

"I was fine before you left for your precious tour of Europe. I was just fine. But you left me all alone, and now look at me!"

"Don't say that, please, Maman!" Erik begged quietly, his eyes on her hand. He just couldn't deal with her accusations, and she knew it.

"Please, don't fight me anymore, Erik. Just move in. There's the spare room that Nanette uses, and I won't bother you when you're trying to rehearse. I never bothered you when you were a boy, did I?"

"No, you were always wonderful. But I really can't —"

"I know you don't like the neighborhood, but if you were just with me, I'm sure I'd get better very fast. I'd be just like before your father died. Then maybe we could move somewhere nice. I just can't stand being by myself with no one to talk to day in and day out."

"You have Nanette. You can talk to Nanette," Erik murmured, picking at his shoelace to avoid her eyes.

"Bah! Nanette! That girl's nothing to me. I can barely stand her, and I'm certain the feeling is mutual."

"Do you want me to find you another companion? It'll be harder this time, since you've been through three already and word gets around."

"Oh please! Word gets around with common servants, I've never heard anything so ridiculous. So … will you come live with me, son?"

Erik couldn't bear to meet those eager, anxious, hopeful eyes.

"We'll see."

"That's what you always say! I want you to say yes."

"I can't say yes — not just yet. But I'll think about it, I promise. I can't give you anymore than that."

Erik's mother pulled her hand a way from his. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled briefly.

"Very well. But this subject is not closed." She uncrossed her arms, still looking highly displeased and disappointed. "Did you at least remember to bring me that book I asked for last time you were here?"

For a horrible moment Erik's mind went blank and he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he felt the outer pocket of his coat and a sense of relief came over him.

"Of course I did. Bought it for you just last night, in fact."

He handed the slim volume of poetry to his mother. She leafed through it without much interest, then sighed.

"Well, at least I have something to occupy my mind with. For a day or two."

Erik sighed just as deeply as his mother had.

"I'll bring you some more soon. I've really got to go now. It's getting late."

He reached into his coat pocket, feeling for his keys.

His mother clutched at his hand.

"No, don't go yet! You just got here! Won't you stay with me a few more minutes, I promise I won't be … unpleasant, Erik."

"You're never unpleasant. Just a bit persistent."

"That's what your father always said. Only I think the phrase he preferred was 'stubborn like a bull-headed old goat.'"

Erik smiled sadly, stood, and kissed his mother lightly on the forehead.

"I'll try to stop by tomorrow, but probably it will have to be later in the week."

"Can't you stay just a minute longer?"

"Maman, I've got rehearsal at eight in the morning tomorrow, and I can't tell you what a mess my apartment is, what with Daroga working the graveyard shift at the station this week …"

"Oh. I see. I don't want you to be tired for your rehearsal tomorrow. Go on home." She forced a brave smile.

"Now, I don't want you in here brooding when I'm gone."

"Brooding! Why would I brood? I have something decent to read, Nanette's making dinner soon. Go on home, Erik. But you promise me you'll come back soon."

"I promise." Erik's hand was on the knob. "You take care, Maman."

Out in the hall, Erik breathed a deep sigh. Seeing Nanette sprawled in a chair, her head nodding, Erik snapped his fingers sharply.

"Here is this week's pay for you, Nanette."

Nanette roused herself faster than usual as Erik took the envelope out of his pocket.

"Now, Nanette: I want you to get out and buy my mother books whenever she wants them. Just tell the shopkeepers to send the bills here, and I'll pay them when I come to visit. And talk to her more, for goodness sake! She's done some interesting things in her life. And I really need you to get her out of the bedroom."

"She said how there's a bug or something in the kitchen, so I —"

"Just humor her, but encourage her to get up and around, will you? I hate seeing my mother confining herself to a bed out of nerves."

"I'll surely try, sir," Nanette yawned.

"I should be back before the weekend, but in case I'm not, here's some money for groceries."

Nanette received this money just as eagerly.

"Take good care of her, Nanette," Erik said in a low voice from the doorway, his body half out in the hall.

"Certainly, sir," Nanette had already retired to her chair, her eyes heavy and the money clutched tightly in her hand.

Erik shut the door softly behind him, feeling relieved and discouraged at the same time. It hadn't been as bad as last visit. Certainly not as bad as he'd expected. Erik walked slowly down the stairs. Still, he felt so terribly depressed and guilty. Was his mother always going to be this way? Could nothing help her return to the fun-loving, curious, daring woman who had raised him?

Erik shoved the broken door open and stepped out into the cool breeze of twilight. His mother certainly had a clear idea of what could help her. Was there no other alternative? Would he have to stop singing, move back home and take care of her?

The cool night air seemed to cleanse him. Erik inhaled deeply. How was he supposed to sing well if they had him rehearsing in a stuffy basement? It was still early — not yet seven. Daroga wouldn't be home until the wee hours of the morning. Erik didn't feel like going home to their messy apartment, and he didn't particularly want to go get anything to eat after his visit with his mother.

Maybe a walk would do him good. He could clear his head and think a bit.

Erik started off at a leisurely pace, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Without thinking about it, he began to hum snatches of his arias from _Love Songs._ When he chanced to hum "Perhaps He Is the One," he felt a flush come over his face, a smile curving his lips up.

He had been surprised when the young woman appeared on the stage last night. He'd been pacing the boards, trying to get a feel for the new theater's size and acoustic potential. Would he have to strain to make himself heard at the back? Would he have to enlarge his gestures to make the emotions of the opera resonate to every audience member? It was a ritual that Erik performed at every theater he sang in, usually late at night so he could be alone.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she had appeared. Like a moonbeam in that dark space, she had drifted across the stage, then, with the grace of a fairy or a wayward goddess, she began to sing.

Erik had never heard anyone sing quite like she did. It wasn't so much her voice itself that captivated him as her technique. She sang with a fluidity and a controlled abandon that he hadn't heard since his visits to the gypsy taverns in Spain. Whereas most of the sopranos he knew sang with razor-precision, her notes melded one into the other to create a unique harmony between her voice and the cavernous silence of the auditorium. That song — which he had heard a hundred times before — astounded him and seduced his soul.

He had to sing with her, had to join his voice to hers. When she had accepted his duet, when her notes mingled with his, he felt like a drunken man. Erik had never been one to force his attentions upon a woman. Indeed, his upbringing had left him with a reserved nature that was rapidly going out of fashion in these increasingly free and wild days. Still, he'd felt with utter certainty that the only way to end such a moving experience was physically.

Erik grinned to himself, feeling like a schoolboy after his first kiss. Her lips meeting his had been incredible. Kissing her had been like the ascent in the hot air balloon he'd taken months ago in Venice. Terrifying, thrilling, a once in a lifetime experience.

Who was she? She was beautiful; he knew that much. When she'd suddenly pulled away and exited the stage through the street door, the light from the outdoor lamps had illuminated her face for one sweet, all-too-short instant. If Erik had been stunned by her singing, he'd gotten it double when he saw those flashing black eyes, the creamy olive skin, the long, glossy black hair which all spoke of the warm sun of Italy. He'd opened his mouth to call out something, anything, but in the blink of an eye she was gone.

Was she a chorus girl? He was certain he'd remember a face like that, even from a hundred feet away. And as for her voice … there could be no mistaking it, even masked by eighty others. There was no one at the opera that sang like she did. She was, quite simply, mesmerizing.

Erik, his heart thundering with the memory of her, threw back his head and began to sing.

"Love pulses like the heart of all nature, love surrounds the earth and all the stars!"

Suddenly, with a jolt, he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder, spinning him around and bringing his song to a halt.

"_Eh, basta, basta, signore_!" snarled a low voice, its Italian accent heavy. "Just where you going, songbird?"

The Giallo apartment was wrapped in the comforting yellow glow of the old brass lamp, which stood on the table next to Babbo. Mama, a tall, slender candle at her elbow, sat sewing beside him, while Nonna snored in her old chair.

"Do you know that they aren't letting people at Zia's work speak Italian while they're in the building anymore?" Babbo grunted at Mamma from behind his Roman newspaper. "French, French, nothing but."

"How can that be? Why should the bosses care what the girls speak?" Mamma winced as she pricked herself with her needle, then stuck her finger in her mouth with a frown.

"Hmf. Those big bosses, they like to control everything." Babbo shook his paper dismissively.

Carlotta, kneeling on the hard wooden floorboards by the kitchen table, spoke up.

"Where _is_ our Zia, anyway?"

"Helping old Mrs. Scorcelli with her laundry. That girl: already worked a full day, and she just keeps on working!" Mamma examined her finger, found it had stopped bleeding, and began to stitch once more.

"What about me? I worked a full day, and what's it look like _I'm _doing over here?"

Carlotta muttered under her breath as she plunged her hands again into the lukewarm tub of water and retrieved another dirty dish from the Giallos' dinner. She felt a shuddery sensation along the back of her neck that was not at all pleasant, and she glanced up from the tub.

Benito sat at the kitchen table, between Carlotta and her parents, smoking a cigarette. His chair was turned to face Babbo, but his eyes were on his cousin as she knelt scrubbing the dishes. Carlotta quickly lowered her eyes from his, feeling burned by his piercing stare.

Carlotta rubbed hard at the dried-on tomatoes that seemed permanently fastened to the serving platter and sighed. Her shoulders ached, and so did the small of her back. Every night she had to scrub the same dishes in the same tepid wash water. At least today she had made a discovery.

_Erik_.

Her mystery man's name was Erik. He was playing the role of Alfred in _Love Songs,_ which would open next month. And that was all she knew. Except that he had the voice and face of a god, and the kiss of the very devil himself. Now that reason had been given the chance to settle back into her heart, she could wonder at her wanton behavior … and smile at the memory. Given the chance, would she let him kiss her again? Yes, a hundred times, yes! It may have been a sin in the eyes of her parents and the church, but she had been thrilled by the touch of a man who was not her betrothed. And she longed for that touch again …

Carlotta glanced up and saw that the eyes of the man who _was_ her betrothed were narrowed suspiciously at her. For an instant she stared back defiantly, then, as Benito's gaze lowered boldly to the half-opened neck of her dress, she felt her cheeks redden and she hunched over the tub.

Benito took a long drag off his cigarette, tapped the ash into the empty tin can he was using as an ashtray, then abruptly rose.

"I'm going out, Babbo," he said in his low, deadly quiet voice.

Babbo grunted behind his paper. Mamma looked up from her sewing long enough to furrow her brow slightly.

"Be careful, Benito," she said softly.

Benito thundered down the dingy stairs of the tenement building, hit the sidewalk, and shook his coat straight. He fished another cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply, savoring the taste.

By God, she made him hard! He wasn't sure how much longer he could wait to have her. Maybe he could pressure his uncle into moving the wedding date up to this year. He needed to be married to her soon, within a few months at the most, or he wouldn't be able to restrain himself any longer.

"_Eh, Giallo_, _come va_?" a nearby voice called.

Benito turned and slapped a hand on Ginito's shoulder, grinning.

"_Va bene, bastardo_!" he said, tossing his pack of tobacco to Ginito and his companion, their young neighbor from the next tenement. "What's going on?"

"Tomo here got kicked out again by his old man."

"Where you sleeping tonight?" Benito lit the young boy's cigarette.

Tomo shrugged, inhaling the strong smoke.

"Probably won't sleep. But I'll be in a bed with a pretty little thing, get me?"

Benito and Ginito laughed.

"So how's that cousin of yours, hm?" Ginito smirked.

Benito's face darkened. "Bitch is getting strange. Smiles for no reason, tries to stare me down. She's got something up her sleeve."

"I'd like to put something up _her_ sleeve, no doubt about that!" Ginito laughed.

Tomo snickered, choking on a mouthful of smoke.

"Eh, man, that's gonna be my wife," Benito said in a low, hard voice.

"_Si_, and my Saturday _amore_!"

Benito's hand flashed out and caught Ginito sharply across the cheek.

"Don't you _ever_ talk like that about my property, you got me? She's mine, and ain't nobody gonna touch her or talk to her or look at her unless I say so!" he shouted.

"All right, all right, _pace_, Benito! I was just … say, what's that?"

The three young men froze and listened. Just down the block, they could here someone singing. A man, and not one whose voice they knew.

"Who the hell's that?" Tomo hissed, melding back into the shadows against the wall of the tenement.

"He ain't from around here. I never heard nobody singing like that in our neighborhood."

Ginito fumbled at the cuff of his pant leg, trying to pull out his knife.

"Wait," Benito laid a restraining hand on Ginito's arm. "Let me."

High up in the Giallo apartment, Carlotta had finished washing the dishes. Mamma, Nonna, and Babbo had gone to bed in the living room area, and Carlotta sat in the window of the darkened room she shared with Zia. Her young aunt had still not yet returned home, and Carlotta was mildly suspicious that she was really meeting a young man, or one of the free-thinking female friends that Babbo had forbidden her to see.

The night breeze was refreshing, though a bit chill. Carlotta wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered. How was she going to see Erik again? She certainly couldn't just walk up to him and introduce herself. In the first place, members of the opera work crew did not associate with the singers. It just wasn't done. Secondly, what on earth was she supposed to say to him, if she ever got the nerve to break the social conventions? "Hello, do you remember me? We sang a song and kissed once."

Carlotta leaned her head against the rough, splintery window frame. Her hands ached from the long soak in the dishwater, from gripping a needle and a hunk of fabric all day, and from helping Nonna with the ironing. She rubbed them together, sighing. Was this to be how the rest of her life played out? Working twelve hours a day, coming home to more work, then dreaming in the night air of better things?

No, Benito would never allow her to dream. He might not let her work anymore, for that matter. Her cousin had very traditional ideas about women and men. She would be confined to the home, making babies and keeping her mouth shut. Carlotta closed her eyes to the tears which began to sting her sinuses. How lucky Zia was! As his aunt, she could never marry Benito. But Carlotta, as first cousin, was an ideal match. A vision of Benito's face hovering over hers as he struggled to impregnate her sent a wave of nausea through Carlotta's body.

But somehow, if she just replaced Benito's face with Erik's, her nausea turned to thrilling waves of excitement. If only she could feel his hands on her shoulders again, his gentle lips caressing hers.

Carlotta, her heart aching, leaned out the window until her feet dangled alarmingly in the open air. She swung her legs lightly, a sad smile curving her lips up. His voice … his touch …

_His voice!_

Carlotta sat bolt upright, nearly toppling out of the window. She had heard Erik's voice! She was sure of it. She held her breath, her ears straining out into the night. Yes, down in the street, about a block away, she was positive that she could hear a man singing. Was it really Erik, or was her longing for him making her imagine things?

No, she was certain that was him! No one else had a voice with such an open, expressive tone. No one else could set her heart to pounding with just one note, one phrase.

Carlotta pulled her feet inside the window and jumped down onto the floor of her room. She didn't stop to think about what she was doing. His voice seemed to call to her with its beauty, and she was powerless to resist.

"I said, where are you going, little songbird?" Benito repeated, his hand spinning the singer around.

To his surprise, the man threw his hand off and snapped, "I'm just walking, not that it's any business of yours. Let me pass."

Benito glanced at Ginito, who had freed his knife and stood a few paces back, in the shadows.

"This here is a private quartier, _signore_. Working folks are trying to sleep, _capisci_?" Benito put his hand back on the singer's shoulder, squeezing just enough to hurt.

Benito saw the singer's blue eyes narrow.

"Fine, I'll keep it down," he replied. "Now get your hand off of me, sir."

"Maybe I don't like how you asked me."

"I didn't ask," Erik said.

He grabbed Benito's wrist. Like the crack of a whip, Benito's other hand knocked Erik a blow to the temple.

"Now, my little pretty bird, we're gonna teach you some — uff!"

Benito stumbled back in shock as the singer swung his fist soundly into Benito's mouth. Spiting blood, Benito seized the man's shirt collar.

"Kill him! _Il_ _bastardo_ _non cantare più_! Get him, Ginito!"

Erik raised his fists as two other Italians, one sporting a knife, immerged from the shadows.

As Carlotta rushed barefoot down the stairs of the tenement building, she was surprised and disappointed to hear Erik's singing come to an abrupt halt. She hesitated on the last landing. Where was he? He had sounded so close — maybe half a block away. Should she venture out to look for him? She was wearing only a shawl over her filmy white nightgown, and no shoes. If Babbo caught her out here in her night clothing, she couldn't imagine what he'd do. Should she just go back up to her room? She stood wrestling with indecision, when suddenly she heard the unmistakable shout of Benito, and the heavy thump of a human body hitting the pavement.

Without another thought, Carlotta ran down the rest of the stairs, pushed open the door, and darted into the dark street. Where was Erik? She heard Benito swear viciously just around the corner. Carlotta picked up the hem of her nightgown and sprinted along the gritty, dusky sidewalk.

She rounded the corner and saw three men hovering around something on the ground, their arms and legs working roughly in and out.

"Benito, stop it!" she screamed.

Benito raised his head from the object on the sidewalk and snarled at her.

"Get back inside, _bagascia_!"

Carlotta, fueled by a certainty of purpose that she rarely felt, grabbed Benito's two friends by their hair and dragged them off of the prone figure on the sidewalk. Benito cursed under his breath, but neither he nor his friends dared to hit or scold Carlotta. She had never interfered in their business before … maybe something was wrong.

"Benito, we gotta go," Tomo whispered urgently, tugging at his sleeve.

"_Basta_!" Benito snapped, throwing Tomo's hand off.

Tomo and Ginito glanced at Carlotta, who was kneeling over the injured singer, then the two took off at a brisk walk, their bruised and bloody hands jammed deep in their trouser pockets.

"Oh, Erik — sir, are you all right?"

Carlotta pushed her long hair out of her eyes and urgently touched Erik's bruised face. Erik's eyes fluttered open and blearily focused on her face. His brow furrowed as the midnight hair, the shimmering black eyes came into focus.

"Who…oh, my God!" he breathed. "It's you!"

"Well? He some friend of yours, huh?" Benito swiped at his bloody lip, glaring at Carlotta while a tiny twinge of fear at what he'd done began to worry his stomach.

"He's a singer at my work, Benito! He's an important gentleman."

"How the hell was I supposed to know that!"

"Why the hell did you have to beat up on a strange man in the street!" Carlotta shouted, not knowing where this unusual courage was coming from. She shot Benito a scathing glance, then turned back to Erik.

"Sir, can you stand?" Carlotta jammed an arm under Erik's body and struggled to lift him to his feet. "Help me, Benito!"

"Huh, _perchè — per un amico così caro _—"

"Just do it!"

With a glower that told Carlotta she'd pay for her behavior later, Benito hauled Erik to his feet and wrapped one arm around his waist, the other around his shoulders.

"So? I've helped him up."

"We have to take him upstairs."

"What? No, no, no! Babbo will never approve of you bringing some man-friend of yours —"

"Do you think he'll approve of you beating up a boss-man from my work?"

Grumbling to himself in Italian, Benito lugged the semi-conscious singer up the steep stairs. Carlotta trailed behind, her hand straying against her will to touch Erik's hair. Why had Benito and his friends beaten Erik? Was he going to be all right? Carlotta's stomach churned when she thought of the possibility that Erik might be seriously injured.

Benito shouldered the door to the Giallo apartment open and hefted Erik inside.

"Be quiet! If Babbo —" Carlotta hissed, too late.

"Who's there? _Che cosa è questo_?"

"_Chi è a la porta_?"

"Nonna, it's just us. Carlotta and Benito. There's been a little bit of an accident."

"What?"

Babbo fumbled for a match, Mamma blearily coughing and muttering at Nonna.

"It's nothing, Babbo, really," Benito began.

"_Santa Maria_!" Babbo bellowed, as the newly lit candle illuminated Erik, Benito, and the dark blood on both. "What in all the hells below has happened?"

"Babbo, I can explain," Benito said, dumping Erik into a kitchen chair.

Carlotta leapt forward to prevent the limp man from falling to the floor.

"Good God! What has happened to him, Benito? Is he all right?"

Mamma jumped to her feet, stumbling over Nonna whose thin mattress had been unrolled in the middle of the floor.

"What did you do to him, Benito?" Babbo roared, rising from the old mattress he shared with Mamma.

In two broad strides, he stood towering over Benito, his thick stomach touching Benito's chest. Benito shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

"I — I didn't do nothin' to him, Babbo —"

"That's a lie! I found him and his awful _amici_ beating Erik — this gentleman — nearly to death! Mamma, get me a wet rag, will you please? His head is bleeding badly."

"You keep out of this, Carlotta! He shouldn't even be up here!" Benito snapped, then glanced up at Babbo's livid face and thought the better of it.

"Who is this man to you, Carlotta?" Babbo thundered, though he was looking not at his daughter, but his nephew, as if unsure which of them to be angry with.

"Is he a friend of yours, _Carlotta-mia_?" Mamma asked, gently pushing Carlotta out of the way to dab the wet cloth on Erik's bleeding temple.

"Did he tamper with your honor, daughter?"

"No! He's a — a boss at my work. An important singer. He doesn't know me, but I recognized him," Carlotta said.

"You beat a boss-man from Carlotta's work? She will be fired! Do you realize what it will do to us, to have no income from her?"

Babbo's face was an ugly shade of purple. Benito squirmed, trying to find an escape.

"_Ah, maledetti! Che mai sara_?" Nonna wailed, discerning from Babbo's shouting and Benito's shame-faced stammering that some great disaster had befallen the Giallo family.

"He's looking pale so, Babbo," Mamma moaned, dabbing at Erik's forehead more vigorously.

"Erik? Can you hear me?" Carlotta realized that her hand was resting tenderly on his pale cheek. She quickly removed it before Babbo or Benito could see.

"I want you out of my home! You bring us to ruin," Babbo shouted at Benito, pointing at the door, his voice like a brass gong.

"No, Babbo! I'm sure it was an accident. He didn't really know it was Carlotta's boss, did you Benito?" Mamma said.

"No! I just thought he was some _bastardo francese_ casing the neighborhood."

"And that would give you the right to attack him?" Carlotta snapped, loosening Erik's tie and gently slapping his wrist in an effort to wake him.

"We keep the neighborhood safe, me and my '_amici_.' If it weren't for us, nobody could walk down the street safe."

"_Che malo, che malo è questo_," Babbo muttered, pacing from the kitchen table to his mattress and back again.

"What are we gonna do, Babbo? What if he calls in the police?" Mamma bit her fingernail.

"No police," Babbo said.

"But what if he —"

"Umm …" Erik groaned, his head slumping forward onto Carlotta's shoulder.

"Erik? Erik, can you hear me?"

She patted his cheek gently, her other arm cradling his head to her bosom.

"Mm…ow…damn, that hurts…"

"Boss, hey boss-man?" Babbo anxiously pressed his face close to Erik's. "You all right?"

"Head …" Erik moaned groggily, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. "What happened?"

"Tell him he fell," Benito hissed.

"We gotta get you home, boss-man. You live around here?" Babbo said.

"Home … opera …"

"Do you live near the opera?" Carlotta inquired.

Erik's eyes slowly opened. He gazed up at her, a smile unexpectedly cutting though the grimace of pain.

"It _is_ you! I thought so …" Erik reached his had up to touch Carlotta's face, then winced in pain.

"_Madre mia_! He knows her, now she'll be fired for sure. Damn you, Benito!"

"Babbo, Babbo, just get him home, then talk with Benito. It's not good now," Mamma pleaded, her hands on Babbo's thick arm.

"Carlotta, find out where he lives," Babbo bit out, his eyes fastened balefully on Benito, who had retired to lean against the kitchen cabinets, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Erik, where do you live?"

"Mm … park … Jardin du Luxembourg … old building …used to be a post office."

"I know where that is," Babbo shook Mamma's hands off gently and grabbed his heavy winter coat. "You help me with him, Carlotta. No time to dress, and nobody's out to see us, anyway."

Carlotta eased Erik's head into Nonna's arms and grabbed her ankle-length winter cloak and a pair of Mamma's old shoes from family's tiny cedar clothing chest.

"I don't like Carlotta going out half-naked like that," Benito ventured from corner.

"Shut up! You're lucky I don't beat you myself, like you beat Carlotta's boss, here," Babbo barked, hefting Erik to a standing position. "We'll be back soon. Don't let anyone in till we return."

Carlotta and Babbo hurried Erik through the dark streets. Erik stumbled along with loose steps, leaning against Babbo and mumbling incoherently. Carlotta clutched his hand in hers, her forehead furrowed with worry. He seemed to be coming around to greater consciousness, but he was still not all right. Carlotta crossed herself with her free hand and began silently to pray that he was not badly or permanently injured.

The three traveled silently through the night for what seemed like ages. Finally Carlotta heard Babbo let out a sigh of relief.

"This is the place. Help me search his pockets for the key."

Carlotta found three keys connected by a bit of old ribbon in his outer coat pocket. Babbo opened the small door to the apartment building with one key, then lugged Erik up a flight of stairs to a door labeled "Ballo &amp; Daroga." He used a second key to unlock this door. Carlotta wondered what the third key opened. They entered the dark apartment. Carlotta fumbled around until she located a candle. She struck a match and lit it, illuminating an apartment with papered walls, framed pictures and plenty of comfortable furniture. The front room was larger than the Giallos' entire apartment.

Babbo lugged Erik into a dark bedroom.

"Daroga's … not mine …" Erik mumbled as Babbo settled him down on the bed.

"Take off his shoes, put a blanket over him, and let's be off, Carlotta," Babbo instructed, nervously wiping at his lower lip.

Carlotta leaned over Erik and gently eased his shoes off. She pulled a quilt over his body. He was so near, warm and alive, yet still so like a man from a dream or fantasy. Carlotta tucked the quilt under his chin, feeling a rough bit of beard growth graze her hand. She shivered, wishing with all her heart that her father were not standing five feet away, cursing softly in Italian.

"I hope you're all right, Erik," she whispered. At the sound of her voice, Erik's eyes opened. His hand shot out and grasped hers.

"Please," he spoke in a strained yet lucid voice, "Tell me your name."

"Carlotta. Carlotta Giallo," she replied, glancing at her father, who was listening intently.

"Carlotta," Erik breathed. His thumb caressed the back of her hand. "Will you meet me tomorrow at the theater? I've got to talk with you. Will you come to the singers' studio in the basement at — at seven tomorrow morning?"

"I start work at seven," Carlotta murmured, wanting to slap herself as soon as she said it. If only Babbo weren't here! Then she would promise anything, would find a way somehow to escape the costume workshop.

"Please, then at six-thirty. I have to see you."

"All right," Carlotta said softly, feeling her father's eyes boring into her back.

"Good … yes … thank you." Erik's eyelids began to droop.

"You'll be fine," Carlotta gently disentangled her hand from his. "Good night."

Walking home with Babbo through the dark night, Carlotta replayed her conversation with Erik. Did he really remember her? Was it possible that their song and their kiss had meant as much to him as it had to her?

"Daughter," Babbo began, his face held sternly away from hers. "About this man. This boss of yours."

"Yes, Babbo?"

A cold wash of dread made Carlotta shudder. Was he going to forbid her to see Erik tomorrow? Did he suspect that there had been more between them than important singer and anonymous costume worker?

"You know, you must meet him tomorrow, Carlotta. I know you don't want to, but it's important that you smooth things down. The family can't afford to be without your income."

"I know that, Babbo. I'll meet him tomorrow."

And, for the first time all evening, a smile lit Carlotta's face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"I wish I'd been there to see this singer of yours! Why didn't you tell me about him before, you sly thing?"

Carlotta shrugged lazily, a playful smile hovering around her lips.

Zia scowled in mock anger, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It's not fair! Why do you get to work at a place loaded with exciting, handsome men, while I'm stuck in that _vecchio_ factory with a bunch of worn out women? Why do you have all the luck?"

"Because I learned how to sew, and you were always too busy reading political newspapers and bullying Babbo."

"You should try both sometime. Expand your mind, my girl!"

Zia and Carlotta sat shivering on the great stone steps of the opera house, waiting for six-thirty to roll around. Carlotta had barely been able to sleep all night, she'd been so excited and nervous. Zia had arrived home while Babbo and Carlotta were out. She and Carlotta had lain awake until the wee hours talking about Erik — and about where Zia had been all evening.

"I still don't see why you had to tell us you were with old Mrs. Scorcelli — why didn't you just tell the truth?"

"Well, it was the truth. I was with Mrs. Scorcelli … for the first hour."

"I really don't understand what exactly you were doing once you'd left Mrs. Scorcelli's place."

"I already told you. I was out walking."

"Walking where?"

"Just around the neighborhood."

"Walking with who?"

"With 'whom,' ignorant girl! I was alone."

"Why?"

"Have you ever walked alone at night?"

"Of course not! It's too dangerous, a woman out by herself at night. Especially in our neighborhood."

"There you have it, then! I'd never done it before, I knew Babbo would never allow it, and I wasn't _supposed _to do it."

Carlotta rolled her eyes at her aunt.

"I think you were with a young man."

"Nonsense! Just because a young woman does something different, something bold, it doesn't mean she did it for a man. But what about you? Are you nervous about meeting your singer in a mere ten minutes?" Zia eyed Carlotta with a malicious grin.

"Don't keep reminding me! I just know I'm going to say something awful —"

"Don't worry, you will."

"Zia!" Carlotta moaned in horror.

"Listen, I'd love to stay out here and listen to you fret, just like last night, but I have to get to work," Zia snickered.

"No! Don't go yet, I'm —"

Zia rose from the cold stone steps and brushed off her shabby wool skirt.

"Sorry, _Carlotissima_, but duty calls. Just try not to sneeze on him, or belch, or —" she dodged Carlotta's swats, giggling.

"You're awful, Zia!" Carlotta called as her aunt walked briskly away, laughing to herself.

Carlotta remained huddled on the steps for several minutes, growing more and more nervous. What did Erik want to talk to her about? Was he angry with her?

Benito certainly was. He hadn't spoken a word to her during breakfast, glaring sullenly at her whenever she happened to look his way. Babbo was still quite upset with him. The tension between the two men during the morning meal had been as palpable as a living entity. Carlotta had breathed a sigh of relief when Benito finally finished eating and stalked out of the apartment.

Five minutes until six-thirty, according to the small clock tower atop the bank building across the street. On shaky legs, Carlotta rose and walked around the front of the opera house to the employee entrance at the back. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and then plunged into the building.

Down the stairs she hurried, past the massive scene shops that belched out sawdust and the strong smells of paint and unwashed crewmen. She reached the familiar stairs leading to the basement and subbasements. She took a last glance around her. This was her final chance to back out. What would Erik do to her, once he had her alone in the singers' studio?

Involuntarily, Carlotta's eyes closed and a shivery feeling of delight swam up her spine and down again.

Carlotta crept down one flight of stairs to the basement, feeling like a trespasser. She hesitated on the landing to smooth out her full skirt and make sure her hand-crocheted collar was flat. She had ironed her best dress carefully this morning, hoping it wouldn't look old-fashioned to Erik's worldly eyes. Skirts were shaped with elegant bustles these days, but Babbo wouldn't allow her alter any of her dresses in what he called "that obscene modern way." She knew she looked unstylish in her heavy woolen gown.

She wanted to make a good impression on Erik. He'd never really gotten a good look at her in full light and while completely conscious. What if he was disappointed?

Carlotta bit her lower lip. Even if he found her clothes drab and her looks common, she was not going to feel ashamed. She was who she was. That was good enough for her family, and it was good enough for her. Her steps sure, Carlotta walked up to the door to the singers studio. Whatever happened, she was not going to regret following her heart. Carlotta took a deep breath, raised a hand, and knocked on the studio door.

"Come in!"

Carlotta turned the knob, and her eyes opened wide in surprise.

"I — I'm sorry! I was supposed to meet someone in here —" Carlotta stuttered at the four men in expensive suits who sat in chairs scattered around the room. She started to back out into the hall.

"Carlotta! There you are," Erik rushed to the door and pulled her gently inside, his hand warm and strong over hers.

Carlotta winced to see the ugly purple bruise on his temple and the discoloration along his jaw where Benito had punched him. She had to resist the instinctive urge to gently caress his injuries.

"Here she is, gentlemen: the woman I told you about. Tremendous singer; I've never heard anyone like her."

Erik guided her to the front of the room, leaning his free hand on the gleaming piano.

"How do you do, Miss … Giallo, is it?" one of them men said.

"Giallo, yes sir." Carlotta glanced from the dignified older gentleman to Erik and back again.

Who were all these men?

"Mr. Ballo tells us you can sing," said a balding man near the piano spoke, his thin lips barely moving.

"I — I — _like_ to sing," Carlotta stammered. "Erik — Mr. Ballo, what's going on?"

"She's incredible, I tell you! Her intonation is unique," Erik enthused, releasing her hand.

"How many roles do you know?" a small man toward the back of the room spoke languidly, flicking a bit of lint off the knee of his trousers.

"Roles? Do you mean just the main arias or — or straight through the whole opera?"

Carlotta's palms were growing wet, her heart thundering in both ears. She didn't know who these men were, but she suspected they were very high up in the management of the theater. Why on earth had Erik tricked her into meeting them? Did he mean to humiliate her in front of these intimidating men? Why would he do such a thing?

"Straight through," the small man smirked, turning to the man next to him and raising his eyebrows. Carlotta's spine stiffened. She detested being looked down upon.

"Well, I know all three soprano roles from _Don Giovanni, _Gilda from _Rigoletto_, Vivianne from _Love Songs —_"

"There! Vivianne — that's the one we need," Erik interjected, his face alight despite the bruises. "I heard her rendition of 'Perhaps He Is the One' the other night, and it blew me away. Her timing is impeccable."

"We'll see," the bald man said. He raised his hand slightly, and an old man with a perpetually bent spine seated himself at the piano.

"For God's sake, George, let the girl warm up first!" Erik exclaimed.

"We don't have time to waste, even at this early hour. If she's any good, we'll know it in the first three bars."

"We've indulged you this far, Erik. Have a seat," the small man gestured impatiently at the chair beside him. "Let's have it then, Miss Giallo."

"Go ahead, you'll do great," Erik whispered, giving Carlotta's shoulder a squeeze.

Carlotta watched as he sat beside the small man, his eyes encouraging and without a trace of malice.

Could this be genuine? Was she really being given an audition with the managers of the opera?

The pianist glanced at Carlotta. She clasped her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

"'Farewell to the Past,' please, if you please," Carlotta requested.

The aged pianist glanced at Erik with a hint of incredulity in his eyes, then raised his hands and struck the opening chords.

Carlotta closed her eyes so that she wouldn't see all those hard, cynical faces. She parted her lips and began to sing. The heartbreaking, meltingly lovely notes lifted her up, as if on a golden cloud. She forgot about the managers, forgot about the pianist. All she could see was the face of her beloved. It was Erik's face, glowingly attentive as he listened to her sing.

When Carlotta released the final, delicately high note of the aria, she unclasped her hands and allowed herself to look around the room. The men sat in their chairs with arms crossed, frowns indenting their foreheads. Erik let out a long, low sigh. Carlotta, alarmed by their unexpected silence, began to fidget with her worn cuffs.

"You haven't received formal training, have you, Miss Giallo?" the bald man said finally.

"N — no, sir."

Carlotta felt a great sense of inferiority and shame well up within her. Had she done that badly? Had she humiliated herself?

"Where did you learn to sing, precisely?"

"My mother. She worked as an opera singer years ago."

"And was she formally trained?"

"Of course," Carlotta's face grew red. "She studied with several well-known teachers."

"Where was this?"

"Italy. Milan … Rome later."

Carlotta's voice was growing rather sharp. How dare these men question her mother's legitimacy as a singer? And how dare they make her, Carlotta, feel so unworthy? She jutted out her chin and stood up straighter. She may have embarrassed herself in front of all these important men with her bad singing, but they would not make her feel inferior.

"You see?" Erik burst out, triumphantly. "She's been trained by a professional singer. Now admit it: she's perfect for the lead role."

"You have a unique voice, Miss Giallo, and an instinctive sense of rhythm and timing. However, your lack of truly formal training and your inexperience are going to hold you back," the small man said, almost to be musing to himself.

"We may be able to find a place for you in the chorus, as an apprentice," the bald man said as he glanced at his pocket watch surreptitiously.

"_Next_ season," the small man interjected.

"Next season, yes. There wouldn't be any salary, and we would expect you to put in the regular ten hour days, five to six days a week excluding major rehearsals and performance nights when your hours will exceed fourteen. You won't be able to have any stage time for at least a year or two, but you would gain training and experience with a world-class musical theater company."

Carlotta was speechless. Her emotions danced rapidly back and forth between two extremes. On the one hand, she was proud that she had done well enough that the managers would offer her a chance to train with the theater. On the other, she was deeply offended that they expected her to quit her job and work for free for two or more years.

"Sirs, I am grateful that you would like to give me this opportunity, but —"

"That is ridiculous, Jean-Pierre, and you know it!" Erik jumped out of his chair to stand beside Carlotta. "Two years of slave labor in the chorus! You'll have squeezed every bit of creativity and distinctiveness out of her singing by the time you hire her on for pay."

"We have a procedure for training inexperienced singers, Erik —" the small man began.

"Oh, come now! When you gentlemen hired me, you didn't put me through two years in the chorus."

"That is because you were not inexperienced. You had a recommendation from someone we respected, and you had successfully worked the European circuit."

Erik put his hands on his hips for a moment, then sighed.

"And, I suppose, that diva you hired to play the lead wouldn't like it if she found herself out of a job."

"That's true. Juliette is a renown performer with a long history of triumps, and we are fortunate to have convinced her —"

"Then where is she? We're going into the second rehearsal — where's the prima donna?"

"Erik, we have already discussed this. She will arrive when —"

"Pardon me," Carlotta spoke up. "If you are done with me, I really must get to work. I can't afford to be late."

"You're excused, Miss Giallo. Contact the chorus master, Mr. Gaulliard, if you're interested in an apprenticeship."

"Thank you, sir, but I'm afraid I must decline."

Carlotta turned to the door.

"By God, George — Carlotta, wait a moment."

Erik crossed the room, his shoes sounding very loud in the hollow space. He glanced over his shoulder at the impatient managers and leaned close to her.

"Meet me somewhere tonight. I have to see you," he urged in a low voice.

"Mr. Ballo, I can't …"

Erik smiled, his classically handsome face enchanting despite the bruising.

"Come on. Just a little music, a little conversation. I promise I won't question your singing credentials."

Carlotta smiled broadly in spite of herself. Babbo and Mamma would expect her home promptly after work. But perhaps she could stay for a few minutes. She could claim that she had to work late on the _Don Giovanni_ costumes again.

"All right," Carlotta acquiesced. "But no audience this time."

Erik grinned. "It's a deal. Meet me in here at … what? Six? Seven?"

"Six."

Carlotta could scarcely believe her audacity. Was she really arranging a rendezvous with a man whom she barely knew? What would Mamma say if she knew? What would Benito say? She had never done anything so daring, so reckless. A devilish smile playing around the corners of her mouth, Carlotta opened the door and hurried down the hall, hoping she wasn't late for her shift.

Carlotta arrived in the costume workshop ten minutes late, received a reprimand but no punishment, and sat down to sew. The dull monotony of stitching yards of ruffles into an enormous petticoat did little to cool the warm excitement which coursed through every vein in her body. She couldn't stop smiling in nervous anticipation.

Three hours into the shift, Carlotta was summoned to the supervisor's table, along with her neighbor in the next chair. They hadn't been talking. What had they done wrong?

"We're going to be loading the _Don Giovanni_ costumes up tonight, for shipment over to London," the older woman explained tersely. "The costume designer wants to make sure the repairs we did haven't altered his original designs at all. I want the two of you to bring this rack of repaired costumes up to the main stage and show him. He'll have you stand on stage under the lights, while he sits in the audience. It shouldn't take more than an hour or so."

Elated, Carlotta and her companion immediately wheeled the heavy rack up the rickety old ramp leading to the stage. Imagine, getting out of the dusty, stuffy studio for an hour or more! She and Maria — her partner in this unusual venture — might even get to sneak outside for a brief breath of fresh air.

The young women rolled the rack through the high-ceilinged backstage corridors, giggling with excitement. It was rare for any crew members in either the costume or set departments to emerge from the workshops to mingle with the "talent" on the stage. Carlotta hoped she might glimpse Erik. They rumbled the heavy rack past stacks of wooden planking, around a large painted flat, and then suddenly they found themselves on the smooth stage floor.

"Ah, here are my costumes — it's about time. Girls, now just come on out into center stage — that's right in the middle, yes. Hold it there," a voice boomed from the audience.

Carlotta and Maria scooted the rack of swinging garments into the center of the enormous stage, squinting at the bright lights that hit them in the eyes. Carlotta's heart beat faster and faster. So this was what it was like to appear on a real, fully lit stage! She turned her head this way and that, trying to see the people — designers for _Love Songs_, most likely — who were talking loudly out in the audience. All over the stage, workmen from the set crews were climbing around on wooden scaffolds, painting huge canvas backdrops, hammering and sawing. The din was incredible and Carlotta loved every moment of it.

"Now, you, on the left — no, _you_, stage left — get out the Donna Elvira costume for me. It's the white item with the rhinestones around the collar. That's the one. Hold it up for me."

Carlotta held the gauzy gown over her body, marveling at how beautiful it looked out here under all the brilliant gas lights. Down in the dim costume studio, it had looked like a tacky piece of old cheesecloth studded with children's marbles.

"Fine, good. Now, keep that there, and you on the right, get out Don Giovanni's act one costume. The one with the big gold breastplate. And show me the mask, too."

Above the shouts of the set designers from the audience and the answering hollers from the crewmen on stage, Carlotta heard a commotion at the back of the audience. She squinted, but she couldn't see what was happening. A shrill voice cut through the noise, trilling stridently at someone, whose answers Carlotta could not hear.

"Good, now both of you turn the garments around so I can see what's been done to the backs."

As Carlotta obeyed, the shrill voice grew closer and closer to the stage. The other voices in the audience began to fall silent.

"Fine, fine. Put those garments back, and I'll have you get out —"

"Michel! Darling! How long has it been? Years, ages, a lifetime, my boy!" the voice trumpeted.

Carlotta took a few steps forward out of the glaring lights and saw a short, rotund woman hurrying toward the costume designer. Carlotta gaped. The hat on the woman's head was enormous — at least two feet tall — and covered with candy-colored tulle and feathers. The woman's ballooning, crinoline-supported gown had gone out of style at least ten years ago, and she wore it with an excess of decoration that would have been gaudy even when the bell-shaped dress was the height of fashion.

"Juliette, my love! Wonderful to see you!" the designer recovered from his shock just in time to kiss the woman's proffered hand, gloved and bejeweled as it was.

"Please tell me you're designing my costumes for this ghastly production, darling!" the woman tossed a glare up at the stage, where all work had respectfully ceased.

"No, no, that would be our Miss St. Germaine. I assure you, she's a fine —"

"Bah! I hate her already. Sooo … where are my sets? I've come all this way, am I to be denied my sets? George!" she shrieked, as if calling a badly behaved child.

The bald manager, whom Carlotta recalled from her strange audition, puffed down the aisle, out of breath and sweating.

"Yes, Juliette?"

"He says my sets aren't ready yet. He says I have no sets!" Juliette thundered.

The bald manager began to stammer, and Carlotta glanced at Maria, whose eyes were enormous.

"Who on earth is she?" Carlotta whispered.

"That's the prima donna — Juliette de Something-Or-Other. She's playing Vivianne in _Love Songs._"

Carlotta stared with renewed interest at the round, shrill older woman. So this was the great opera star the managers had spoken of earlier. How could anyone with such a grating, shrewish speaking voice sing well? Her voice was too high and too piercing to do justice to the role of the gentle, dying ingénue. Perhaps volume was the only consideration, since the theater was so large. She was loud enough to fill three opera houses!

"I didn't say they're not ready, Juliette," the costume designer hastily put in.

"Close enough!"

"As far as I know, they've been working on them, and —" the manager looked near panic.

"I demand that you show me proof that you are indeed 'working on them!' Ring my drops in!" Juliette proclaimed, with a theatrical flourish of her arm.

The bald manager ran a nervous hand over his shiny head.

"But —"

"NOW!"

"Mr. Poisson! Bring down the banquet hall drop," he shouted to a man standing on the stage behind Carlotta and Maria.

"Which one? The act one or the act three?"

"Whichever is finished."

"Yes, sir. Bring down drop 3-A!" he tilted his head back and shouted into the darkness above the stage.

"3-A coming in!" a man yelled somewhere high above.

Carlotta caught a whooshing movement out of the corner of her eye. Her head jerked up just in time to see an immense horizontal iron pole and its two-story tall hanging of painted canvas come swooping straight down at her.

"Look out!" she shrieked, pushing Maria out of the way.

The drop fell onto the precise spot where the girls had been standing, knocking the heavy costume rack to the stage floor with a crash.

"Oh, good lord! Are you girls hurt?" the unseen man above the stage shouted in alarm.

"No," Carlotta managed. Maria, stunned, could only open and close her mouth as she stared at the scattered costumes and the horrifically bent rack.

"Didn't you hear us give the drop call? Why didn't you move?" the bald manager dithered, looking just as shocked as Maria.

"We don't know what that means! And you, madame — why did you need to see it now? You could have waited!" Carlotta flared, unable to control herself.

"I am certain you're not talking to _me_," Juiliette chirped, her eyes hard.

"You come in here disrupting everything — we could have been killed and it would have been your fault! Why couldn't you just take his word? Why did you have to see for yourself?" Carlotta shouted, her temper lost.

Like Babbo, when she got truly angry, she lost all control of her mouth. Carlotta felt Maria tugging at her arm, but she ignored her.

"George! Is this the kind of staff you keep nowadays? Do you find it amusing to let your lowest hirelings insult your guest artists? I don't need this: I'll go to Zaraldini at La Scala and do his _Barber of Seville_! He knows how to treat a performer!" the prima donna waved her gloved hands in the manager's face, her hat rocking dangerously on her head as she started to push past him.

"Juliette, wait, don't — Miss Giallo, you're fired! Finish out your shift, then get off the premises! Juliette, let me personally apologize, she's just some mannerless Italian immigrant …" the manager pursued the singer up the center aisle, leaving Carlotta mute and horrified on the stage.

The next six hours passed like a searing, heavy iron over Carlotta's stupefied heart. How could this have happened? How could she have gotten herself fired?

After all these years watching Mamma and Babbo struggle to make ends meet, after the hundreds of times Babbo had reminded her that each and every member of the family had to do their part, how could she have let everyone down?

Numbly, Carlotta stitched away at the last row of ruffles on the petticoat. In just a few hours more, she would be without a job. Maria had returned from the stage a few minutes after Carlotta. She had held a whispered conference with the shop supervisor, then seated herself beside Carlotta to sew in silence. Carlotta was grateful to Maria for explaining to the supervisor what happened. Carlotta herself seemed incapable of speaking, her soul wreathed in shame and her eyes constantly tearing up.

Finally, the long, painful shift came to a close. The other girls had been unusually silent, giving Carlotta strained, sympathetic glances. Somehow, without a word being said, every one of them had learned exactly what happened up on the big stage.

Carlotta gathered together her cloak and small handbag. With slow, agonized movements, Carlotta walked out of the workshop. What was Babbo going to say when she told him what she had done? Would Mamma cry? Would Zia scold her?

Suddenly Carlotta stopped and stood very still in the dim hallway. She had forgotten all about Erik. She was supposed to meet him up in the singers studio right now.

Should she go? She had to explain her error to her parents, and coming home late after a clandestine tryst with a man who wasn't her future husband would only serve to anger them all the more.

Carlotta bit one of her ragged fingernails. Why should she go to him? He couldn't possibly care for her. She was a mannerless Italian girl with little education, shoddy clothing, and an accent that gave her away the minute she opened her mouth. There was no way a timelessly handsome, sophisticated man like Erik could feel anything tender or warm for her. Probably he just wanted to get Benito's correct name and address from her so he could press charges with the police.

She shouldn't go. There was no point. She would only find herself in deeper trouble.

Carlotta realized she was standing outside of the door to the singers studio. She raised her hand to the tarnished brass knob.

Just for a minute. She would stay just a minute. She would find out what he wanted from her, then she'd go home and confess her guilt.

Carlotta walked slowly into the studio, her eyes downcast. Would he even show up? Most likely he had forgotten all about their meeting. Well, at least she could play around with the piano for a minute. She had never touched a piano before in her life.

"Carlotta! There you are. I hoped you hadn't forgotten."

Erik rose from the piano bench and walked toward her, a warm, friendly smile warming his ice-blue eyes.

"I — I — how is your face, Mr. Ballo? Does it hurt much?" she took a hesitant step closer to him, wishing her heart wouldn't pound so hard at the mere sound of his voice.

"No, no, it's had worse, and will again in the future, I'm sure. Daroga threw a fit when he saw it this morning, though. He's my roommate. He came on into his bedroom, found me lying there asleep with the banged-up face … and it's Erik, by the way."

"Pardon?"

"Call me Erik. So … how are you?" he inquired politely.

"Very well, thank you," Carlotta replied, her hands demurely clasped.

She and Erik locked eyes. Both burst out laughing.

"It's silly, isn't it? Being so awkward after … come here, sit down," Erik beckoned with his irresistible smile.

Carlotta followed Erik to the piano bench, her heart starting to quiver. She sat down beside him, her thigh just grazing his.

"I promised you music … do you know _'_Là ci darem la mano?' I remember you said you knew all three soprano roles from _Don Giovanni_."

"I know it. But shouldn't you be saving your voice?"

"It will survive."

Erik's muscular forearm brushed against her shoulder, the closeness of him on the bench making her throat go dry. She swallowed nervously.

"All right … but I don't know if I can sing it all that well —"

"This is only for fun. Just enjoy," Erik grinned, twiddling his fingers in the air before striking the keys.

Carlotta did as he suggested and threw herself into the song for the sheer pleasure of it. It was such a light, happy duet. Her dark sense of gloom and guilt lifted by degrees until she was smiling with genuine joy. Erik bashed out the final chords with a laugh and turned to face her.

"That's more like it! From the look on your face when you came in here, I thought you were planning on telling me I was the reigning king of your list of terrible men."

"No, no of course not! I just …" Carlotta bit her lip.

"What?" Erik peered into her downcast face, his smile fading. "Are you all right? Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"I … I lost my job here today."

"What?" Erik exclaimed. "Because of me? Were you late to the costume studio? Was it that?"

"No, no, it had nothing to do with you or the meeting with those men this morning. I … yelled at a performer," she whispered.

"How did this come about? I didn't think crew mixed with cast much," Erik said, a concerned frown denting his forehead.

"It was the prima donna. She made them bring in a drop and it almost hit me, so I just …" Carlotta trailed off, flapping her hands weakly in dismay.

"Juliette," Erik bit out darkly. "I met her today, myself. She said I looked more like a prizefighter than a singer, then she refused to rehearse with me. She said that she does not need to rehearse. Nevermind that I might need to rehearse. She's just a _grande dame_ of the old school flexing her diva muscles for show," Erik said, his arm encircling Carlotta's shoulders in such a natural, reassuring way that she felt herself unexpectedly relax.

"My family can't afford to lose my income. Even for a few days, or a week," Carlotta said softly, allowing her cheek to rest comfortably against his chest.

Was it wrong to let a young man who wasn't Benito, her future husband, embrace her like this? But Benito had never touched her tenderly; never held her when she was upset. How could someone she barely knew make her feel so safe?

"I'll put in a good word for you. Don't worry; I would wager they were justtrying to appease the old dragon lady. They'll probably hire you right back tomorrow, no questions asked."

"I don't think so. The manager was very angry, and so was Juliette."

Carlotta felt her throat tighten with tears. How was she going to tell Babbo what she had done?

"It will be fine, I promise. Let's put that smile back on your face, what do you say?"

Erik tipped his face down to hers, as if to kiss her, then hesitated.

"Let's sing something light. Do you know 'Una Parola,' from _L'Elisir d'Amore?"_

_"__L'Elisir d'Amore?_ No, I haven't heard of that opera."

"Hm. Let's see …"

"Why not 'For You, Oh Carlotta' from _The Pilgrim's Voyage_?" Carlotta suggested, a mischievous smile coming to her lips.

"Clever! But that's mostly for the tenor — the soprano has hardly any notes to sing."

"I want you to sing to me. Your voice is remarkable, beautiful."

Carlotta lowered her eyes, her cheeks going red at her boldness. Erik reached out his hand and tipped her chin up so that she had to look into his eyes.

"I'll sing for you any time you want," he said softly.

Erik turned away from the keyboard. He began to sing the tender, love-filled song to Carlotta without accompaniment. Carlotta could scarcely breathe, his voice buoying her up to the clouds with its barely restrained passion, its gentle urgency. Her own brief notes toward the end felt breathless and thin compared to his sweeping emotion.

As his song echoed away to silence in the studio, Carlotta let out a tremulous sigh.

"How do you do it? How do you sing with such feeling?"

Erik gazed at Carlotta silently. Without meaning to do it, all at once he found his lips gently pressing hers. Erik closed his eyes and released himself into the warm, thrilling world that her kiss opened to him.

Carlotta instinctively resisted for a split second, the image of Babbo's disapproving face flashing before her. Then, her heart thundering in her ears, she dropped all pretense and allowed her lips to travel slowly with his, her hands entwining in his fair hair.

"I guess … I guess that's how I sing with so much emotion. For you, oh Carlotta," Erik laughed shakily when at last he made himself pull away.

Carlotta gazed at him with burning, unashamed eyes.

"I must go. Babbo — my father, he'll be worried if I'm not home on time. May I see you again? I want to."

"Yes, God, yes," Erik stammered, then, meeting her eyes, both laughed.

"Will you meet me out in front of the theater some evening? I can't come in here, since I'm no longer an employee," her voice trembled slightly on the last words.

"Of course I will. But I still think that they'll hire you back just like that," Erik snapped his fingers.

Carlotta seriously doubted this, but she kept her silence, her eyes unswervingly focused on his face.

"When? When may I see you again?"

"Tomorrow?" Erik ventured, as if afraid that she might be put off by his eagerness.

"Tomorrow. Before dinner," Carlotta smiled, her eyes bright with anticipation. "And I will have you sing for me again … maybe _La Luna Dorma_. Do you know that song? It's an Italian folksong."

"'The Moon Sleeps?' I'm barely going sleep tonight, you can believe that."

Carlotta giggled, knowing that the same would be true for her. Erik reached out a finger and gently traced her lips.

"You're so beautiful when you smile, you know," he murmured.

"I have to go," Carlotta replied weakly, wishing with all her heart that she could stay for another hour, another song, another minute, even.

She closed her eyes and shivered as Erik's finger was replaced by his lips, this time warmer and more insistent. Carlotta clung to his upper arms, meeting him fully in his embrace. If only Benito could make her feel so safe and excited!

"I must go. Now," Carlotta insisted, more to herself than to Erik. She stood and collected her handbag from the piano.

Erik rose also, gripping the edge of the piano as if to hold himself back from Carlotta.

"I'll wait for you at the top of the big stone steps out front," he said.

"I'm glad I came today."

"I'm glad you came today, too. Were you thinking about skipping our meeting?"

"Well, yes, for a moment or two," Carlotta admitted. "It's been a bad day, and I thought maybe you just wanted to … scold me for giving a bad audition."

Carlotta intended to mention Benito, but changed her mind at the last moment. She forced herself to open the door, knowing that if she delayed any longer she would never be able to tear herself from Erik.

"La luna dorma, Carlotta." Erik smiled with humor, and an underlying layer of longing.

"Io dormirò per ti sognare," she smiled. "I will sleep so I can dream."

She stepped out into the hall and started to close the door.

"You know, I've picked up some working Italian from singing it all these years, young miss. You said you will sleep so you can dream _of me. _Pleasant dreams, Carlotta," Erik called as she shut the door.

Carlotta burst out laughing and rushed through the hall and up the narrow staircase. He was unlike any man she had ever met before: so open, so gentle … and yet he could make her heart surge like a wanton woman's with the lightest touch. She had never guessed that she could be so bold, so immodest with a man she was not married to.

Still laughing softly to herself, she pushed the employees' door open and stepped out into the cool night air.

"Benito!" she gasped when she saw her cousin leaning against the handrail. "What are you doing here?"

Benito slowly stood up straight and took off his cap. He crushed it between his hands, his eyes dancing from Carlotta to the pavement.

"I came to walk you home," he mumbled. "And to say …"

"Say what?" Carlotta began to walk, feeling a crushing fear of her cousin that she had only sampled in the past.

"Say … that I'm sorry."

"What?" Carlotta exclaimed, shocked.

"About last night. I'm sorry I beat your boss and got the family all upset. Did … did you lose your job?"

Carlotta stared at Benito in disbelief. She couldn't remember the last time her cousin had apologized to her for anything he had done.

"Yes, I lost my job," Carlotta stated, shaking her head in wonder.

It had been a strange day, but hearing her sullen cousin say he was sorry was the strangest thing that had happened to her.

"You did?" Benito stared at her as he strode along beside her. "Carlotta, I — I … _bella_, I am so sorry."

Carlotta stopped and looked up into her cousin's face. It was hard to make it out in the twilight dimness, but she could swear that she saw actual guilt painted over his hard features. And he had called her "beautiful" like a lover would. Since when had her long-betrothed cousin felt any tenderness or husbandly care for her?

"You really feel badly, don't you Benito?" Carlotta said in wonder.

"It's all my fault. Babbo's angry with me, and Nonna, and Zia — _dio_, you should hear her rave! Now you must be angry at me, too."

A surge of pity rushed through Carlotta. Underneath all his harsh words and cold glares, Benito must actually care about her. That he might be upset at the thought that she was angry with him touched her deeply. Perhaps their marriage wouldn't be a disaster, after all. Perhaps in time she might grow to love him as a wife should.

"Benito, it wasn't your fault that I got fired," Carlotta said gently, laying her hand on his rock-hard arm. "I yelled at a singer today without thinking, and the boss-men fired me for it. Erik, the one you beat, he didn't hold me responsible at all for what you did."

Benito was silent for so long that Carlotta wondered if he had heard her. Then, his voice came, low and hard.

"You did _what_?"

"I — I wasn't thinking, and I spoke harshly to her, and…" Carlotta trailed off. "Why are you looking at me like that, Benito?"

Her cousin's face was like granite: stony and terribly, terribly cold.

"Hurry up. We're late."

He seized her upper arm in a painful grip and began to tow her along the sidewalk.

"Benito! You're hurting me! Stop it, please!" she cried out as she stumbled after him.

"_Bagascia_! I can't believe I wasted my time feeling bad for you. You stupid little bitch! How could you go and get yourself fired?"

"I didn't mean to do it! I spoke without thinking — Benito, slow down, please!" Carlotta panted, jogging along sideways as his hand bit deeper into the flesh of her upper arm.

"How will the family pay the rent with you out of work? How will Nonna buy her medicines? Do you expect Zia and me to pull your load for you? I won't do it and I won't let Zia do it, do you hear me? Babbo is gonna thrash you!"

"Benito, I'm sorry, please, please —" Carlotta sobbed, her arm feeling as if it was being pulled out of the socket.

How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn't she let Benito take the blame for her lost job?

Benito dragged her along every one of the many long blocks to their apartment building. By the time he hauled her up the three flights of stairs, her entire arm had gone horribly numb and tears streaked her face.

The Giallos jumped up from the dinner table as one when Benito burst through the door with the sobbing Carlotta in tow.

"Benito! What's the matter?" Mamma exclaimed, her mouth full.

"What's happened, Benito?" Babbo rose warily.

"This little bitch got herself fired today," Benito released Carlotta's arm abruptly, sending her tumbling to her knees on the hard wooden floor. "I was forgiven by her boss-man, but then she decides she's good enough to scold a singer, and they had to fire her. Pig!" he spat out, menacing her from above as she cowered with her hands over her head.

"Daughter, is this true?" Babbo shouldered Benito out of the way to bend over her himself.

"Ba — Ba — Babbo!" she sobbed. "He _hurt_ me! Benito, he — he —"

"Babbo, don't scold her!" Carlotta heard Zia cry out. "It's bad, what she did, but we are lucky. Just today, my boss announced several new positions that the factory is desperate to fill. If she comes with me, I'm sure they will hire her on the spot, no experience needed at all."

Carlotta felt her young aunt's strong, protective hands on her back. Her father's fists slowly unclenched, though Benito's eyes were still shooting sparks of rage.

"I will take her with me tomorrow and they will hire her. There's no need to scold her, Babbo. Benito's already done enough. And I will speak sternly with her in private. Come on, Carlotta; come into our room and explain yourself to me."

Carlotta rose, her aunt's arms around her. Carlotta hid her wet face in Zia's long hair, her sobs barely under control.

"That bastard of a man," Zia rumbled once their door was closed. "Did he hurt you bad, Carlotissima? Shhh … it's all right. They won't do any more to you tonight. A reprimand from an aunt counts for three from a cousin, after all. Even if he is a man."

Zia sat down on the bed beside her. She wrapped her arms around her niece and rocked her, patting her disheveled hair gently.

"He — he — he hurt my arm!" Carlotta sobbed, clinging to her aunt. "I can't be married to him, Zia! He scares me! I'd rather die."

"Shhh, don't start worrying about that yet. You won't have to answer to him for a year or more. And anyway, you both will probably still live here with us, since Benito can't possibly make enough money to afford his own apartment. Stop crying, take a deep breath. It's not as bad as you think, I promise."

Carlotta scrubbed a hand over her tear-streaked cheeks.

"At least there's that job at your work. Is it very hard? Will I really be hired?"

"I don't think so," Zia smiled sadly. "You see, I lied. There is no job — not that I know of, at least. But maybe we'll be lucky and there will be an opening after all. Girls quit so often around there. But at least I bought you some time, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." Carlotta kissed her aunt's cheek: something she hadn't done since she was a little girl. "Thank you, Zia."

"Oh, you thank me now! But wait until I start to scold you, bad niece!" Zia shook her finger at Carlotta in pretended rage. "You think you fear your Babbo? You think Benito is frightening? Ha! You'd best give your soul to God, because your hide is mine!"

Carlotta burst into giggles, covering her mouth with her hand so that the family wouldn't hear.

"What would I ever do without you, Zia?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Say, Erik," Nadir Daroga called from the washstand. "Are you going to make it home for dinner tonight, or are you planning on getting yourself beat up again?"

"That was just the one time," Erik replied, knotting his tie in the doorway. "Last night I was up to far better things, believe me."

"Hmf," Daroga grunted, peering in the mirror as he maneuvered his straight razor over the tricky spot beneath his nose. "You've probably got yourself a nice smuggling operation going on at the opera, and I won't get a whiff of information out of you. Can you imagine what all the other policemen down at the station are going to say to me when you get arrested? 'Oh, had yourself a smuggler living right under your roof, did you, Daroga? This is why we never trust you Arabs!'"

Erik laughed and reached around Daroga for his hairbrush.

"I'm sure it's your fondest dream to have a roommate who can get you fine German beer at wholesale prices."

"As a sworn officer of the law, I resent that implication. But as a beer-drinker, I will ask that the next time you tour Europe, pleas better bring me back a whole barrel of Rhineland's finest."

Erik shoved Daroga aside and bent over the small mirror so he could see if his part line was straight.

"So, where were you really, old boy? Did it have anything to do with the thrashing you got the other night?" Daroga asked, his eyes meeting Erik's in the mirror.

"In a way," Erik replied, smoothing down his hair.

"I still can't see why you wouldn't let me take a report off you. Come on, Erik, level with me. Who bashed you up? Are you in any trouble?"

"Nadir, as my oldest friend, I can say this only to you: Mind your own business."

"As your oldest friend, Erik, I can't. And as a police officer, I won't. I'll pester you till you tell, just like when we were callow youths."

"If I tell you what I was doing last night, will you lay off the questions about how my features got rearranged?"

"For now."

Daroga wiped his newly shorn face with a towel and looked at Erik expectantly.

"I have met the most incredible girl in the world," Erik announced, his eyes wide.

"Is that all?" Daroga snorted. "I thought maybe you'd gotten yourself introduced to the king of Italy over at that opera of yours."

"Oh, come on, Nadir! I'm serious — she's amazing. Beautifyl, sweet, and the best damned soprano I've ever heard."

"Ooooh, so now young Erik's dating chorus girls!"

"She's not a chorus girl. She's some sort of seamstress in the costume department. And I'm going to see her again tonight."

"So dinner's out for you and me, huh?"

"You better believe it."

"You're turning into a real sheik, you know that? Getting all the girls with that voice of yours. Be careful, or you'll lose your head and get yourself in trouble."

"Oh, please! When have I ever gone mad over a girl?"

Daroga pitched his towel into the pile of dirty laundry in the corner.

"Seriously, Erik, don't get in too deep. You've already got a girl."

"Of course," Erik grumbled darkly. "Maman. Don't get me wrong, Daroga — I love her. But I just can't take the constant nagging, the guilt, the new paid companion ever month or two. It's wearing me down."

"Obviously. That's the plan. Then, when you're feeling weak, you'll agree to move in and take care of her. I respect your mother, Erik, but I must tell you: She's not well."

"I know that. But I refuse to have her put away. She's not crazy. She's doing fine on her own."

"For now. What about next month? Next year?"

"Are you baiting me, Officer Daroga?" Erik frowned at his friend.

"Not at all. I just think you need a plan, or within a month I'll have to hunt up a new roommate who knows how to cook and doesn't mind me coming home from work at four in the morning."

It was a bright day, in spite of some early fog. Erik set off for the opera at a brisk walk, his heart both light and heavy at the same time. He could scarcely wait until the evening, when he would meet Carlotta again. Yet every time he thought of her, a guilty picture of his mother sitting at home alone flashed up behind his eyes. He really ought to visit his mother instead. He'd promised to come more often. That's what a good son did.

Erik didn't feel much like a good son these days.

He jogged up the stone steps to the grand entrance of the opera. He could have gone in the stage door, or though the employees' entrance, but he always preferred to enter the theater the same way the audience did. It gave him a tingle of the old excitement he had felt as a child, coming to the big theater where magic was made. He hoped his audiences felt the same sense of anticipation and wonderment that he always enjoyed.

Erik waved to the doorman and trotted through the thickly carpeted rotunda with its glittering chandeliers and gilt-chased carvings. He pulled open the heavy doors and walked down the red carpeted aisle toward the orchestra pit.

He was early; none of the other soloists had arrived yet.

"Hey, Raphael!" he called to the pianist, who was warming up in the pit.

"Hey there, young man! What is the good news?"

"Same as ever. You been down to Montmartre lately?"

Erik grinned at the aging musician, then vaulted up onto the high stage floor and sat with his legs dangling down into the pit. Raphael grinned back, running his fingers rapidly over the keys.

"Of course, got this amazing West Indian demoiselle at Le Raton et Le Baton. Great lets, and talk about a voice! You ought to go on over and see. They're thinking about doing a big revue, too, I hear."

"I guess I will have to," Erik winked at Raphael. "So … where's the glorious diva?"

Samuel grunted.

"She's got Mr. St. Germaine caged up in her dressing room. Reading that poor old boy the riot act over God only knows what."

Erik rolled his eyes and hopped down into the orchestra pit.

"Maybe she didn't like the weather this morning, which is clearly his fault. Slide over, my friend."

Raphael scooted over on the bench to make room for Erik.

"Oh, my poor boy! You sure you can keep up?"

"You sure I can't?"

"Oh, I'm sure!" Raphael laughed, swinging into a can-can variation of Erik's act one drinking song.

"Too fast!" Erik moaned as he jangled along in an approximation of his solo.

"You can sing it, but you can't play it!" Samuel hooted as Erik collapsed dramatically over the keyboard.

Erik rose, grabbed the edge of the stage floor, and hefted himself up.

"Your job is safe, I see. I guess I'd best go to work."

"Good Lord!" the alto playing Flora shrieked, as he leapt into view at her very feet.

"Christ, Ballo, you sure can make an entrance!" exclaimed the set designer, who was perched high above the stage on a scaffold. The handful of singers on the stage floor laughed.

"What can I say? I can manifest like a phantom," Erik brushed himself off, then gave the alto a gentle pinch on the arm so that she shrieked again, this time in amusement.

"Of all the acts of idiocy I've ever seen, your dreadful mismanagement of my publicity takes the cake! If this were ancient Britain, I would have no qualms whatsoever about beheading you and throwing your wretched carcass into the peat bogs!" a high voice clanged from backstage.

"Now, Juliette, I can assure you —"

"A small, trained monkey could manage this opera, and while you are similar in appearance, you don't seem to have the monkey's brainpower!"

The singers on the great stage were silent as Juliette stormed into their midst. Seeing all the wide eyes and shocked expressions, she tossed head — and her enormous hat — then flapped a gloved hand imperiously at the singers.

"What are you all staring at? We have an opera to produce! Get to it!"

She flounced down the stage steps, a swirl of aqua silk and tulle. Erik let out an amazed whistle.

"Now _that's_ what I call an entrance!" he murmured, shaking his head.

"You didn't do so bad for your first day. Some girls walk off the job on their lunch break and never come back."

Carlotta would have glared at Zia if she hadn't been so exhausted.

"It was awful! Having to move so quickly, over and over and over! How do you stand it day in and day out?" Carlotta struggled to button her coat as the two walked, her fingers stiff and sore.

Zia shrugged.

"You'll get used to it, just like I did. You ought to be thanking your lucky stars that they had an opening at all."

Carlotta sighed.

"I know. I'm sorry for seeming ungrateful, Zia. Thank you for helping me get the job."

Zia put her arm around Carlotta's shoulders and squeezed her briefly.

"I know you're tired. It seems like the worst job on earth — I felt the same way for the first month or two. But you get faster, you get so you don't have to think at all. You can just … daydream. There are worse things to do for a living."

Carlotta seriously doubted that. For the past twelve hours, she had stood on the factory floor, a cog in a line of several hundred girls, picking out a thread from a fast-moving skein, pushing it into a tiny hole, then picking out another, pushing it into a tiny hole, then picking out another …

Her mind was numb from the hideous repetition, her back and legs were aching from bending and straightening over and over again, and her nerves were jittering wildly from the pressure put upon her to work as fast as she could. It amazed her that Zia had any energy when she came home at night. Had she known the awful sort of work her aunt did, Carlotta would never have pestered her to help with the dishes or the laundry.

"I'm so tired," Carlotta moaned. "I just want to go home and sleep for ages. I don't even want to eat."

"No sleep for us," Zia chirped with a wry smile. "We have to go to mass with Mamma and Nonna, remember?"

Carlotta let out a groan that startled a pigeon into flight.

"I can't do it! I'll fall asleep on the kneeler."

"No, my girl. You're singing tonight."

"Not tonight! Did I really tell the priest tonight?"

"_Si, Senorina_."

"Aw, _Zia-mia_!" Carlotta whined. "I don't want to! I …" she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, her eyes widening.

"What?" Zia asked.

"I completely forgot," Carlotta murmured.

"What?! Is it something good?" Zia demanded.

Carlotta blushed.

"I — I — was supposed to meet Erik at the theater tonight."

"I knew it! I knew that boss-man of yours would fall for you, just like in the dime novels!" Zia crowed.

"It's not like that … not exactly. We were supposed to sing together."

"Mm-hm … love songs, I bet." Zia grinned, poking Carlotta's ribs. "Well, you can't meet him. Mamma and Nonna will flip if you don't show up."

Carlotta shook her head, a resolute look in her eyes.

"I have to tell him, at least. I won't leave him waiting without a word."

Zia shrugged.

"All right, we'll stop by the opera on the way. But I'm not waiting more than five minutes for you. I won't be left shivering out in the street while you and your beau explore the Garden of Eden."

"What shivering? It's the middle of April," Carlotta snorted, trying to distract her aunt from noting the blush that was creeping up her neck.

"Don't worry about it, Erik," Raphael said as he trailed behind the enraged young man. "She's just another diva; you know how they are."

"Oh, I know, all right," Erik flung the door to his dressing room open and switched on the lights.

"You've been to Europe. You've worked with her kind before."

"Her kind? _Her kind_? There is no one of her kind in all the world, in all the universe … and thank God for that!" Erik shouted and kicked aside a make-up stool, sending it clattering to the floor.

"Shhh! Keep it down, young man, for your sake!" Raphael waved his hands up and down, his eyes wide with alarm.

Erik took a step toward the pianist, his bruised face alive with fury.

"First, she refuses to rehearse. Then she decides to sit in the audience and make insulting remarks the entire time. And now she demands that the management fire me and get 'a _quality_ tenor.' It is intolerable!"

"Erik, pipe down!" Mr. St. Germaine hissed as he slid through the half-open dressing room door. "We can hear you all the way down by the chorus dressing rooms!"

"Good! Maybe that she-terror will get it into her head that Erik Ballo is not another one of her toadying little minions!" Erik shouted, his fists balled up so tight that his knuckles were white.

Mr. St. Germaine rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed.

"Erik," he picked up the make-up stool and sat wearily. "I really can't deal with two stars having temper tantrums today. Please, for my sake."

Erik took a deep breath, his hands on his hips.

"All right, all right … so," he perched on the edge of the make-up counter. "What did the harpy throw a tantrum about this time? Me?"

"Well, yes, in point of fact." Mr. St. Germaine pulled a handkerchief from his breastpocket and mopped at his forehead. "She really doesn't care for you, Erik. Oh no, not a bit."

"Is that right? I thought we had a special bond between the two of us," Erik smirked, folding his arms over his chest.

"That woman," Mr. St. Germaine shook his head in wonder. "I've worked with prima donnas before — you know that, Erik. Raphael, have I worked with prima donnas before?"

"Oh, you've worked with all of the big names, sir. Giuditta Pasta, Emma Romer, Elizabeth Rainforth. Why, I remember when that Fanny Persiani woman came here for the premiere of _La Sonnambula_, she smacked you right over the head with her flowers for not introducing her fast enough to the conductor."

"You see, Erik? I've been cursed at, physically abused, insulted — by God, one time I even had a lap dog sicced on me. But this woman …" Mr. St. Germaine shook his head in defeat. "Will you excuse us, Raphael?"

"Sure, sure, no problem. Erik: keep it in here, son," the old pianist thumped his chest, his eyes stern.

"I'll try," Erik murmured as Raphael shut the door.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Erik sighed. "I can see you've got enough to worry about without me going mad. But I need to know: Are you going to give in and have me replaced? I have a contract — you can't fire me after a production has gone into rehearsal except for gross misconduct or if I lose my voice."

"I know, I know, Erik. Thank God for that contract. It was the only way I could get her to back down."

"So you've already spoken with her?"

"I spoke _at_ her. She didn't seem to listen much. She sure did scream, though. God, Erik, I'd kill for a large glass of Beaujolais. And think: there are a three and a half weeks more of this. Three and a half weeks of that sharp, cutting voice complaining and complaining about every little detail of the production —"

"If you'll give me your word that you won't fire me —"

"Hell, Erik, I was just going to ask for your word that you won't quit on me!"

Erik laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh, I never run from a fight. If that she-devil wants to go head to head, I'm game. And you can tell her that."

"I think she's well aware, Erik. As is the entire cast. You've got a voice that carries, young man."

"The better to sing with, Mr. St. Germaine," Erik slapped the befuddled manager on the back. "Say, is the basement studio free tonight, by any chance?"

Mr. St. Germaine shook his head.

"Lafayette is rehearsing the chorus for the party scenes. He's going for controlled hedonism, as he put it. I told the old man he ought to bring in some real wine to get everybody feeling jolly — I know I could use a glass."

"Studio's a no-go. Well, see you tomorrow, bright and early. And remember: keep it in here, son," Erik mimicked Raphael, a bit of humor in his eyes at last.

"Get out, ridiculous boy!" Mr. St. Germaine swatted his arm at Erik, a smile breaking through his worried expression.

Erik strolled down the corridor, past the other dressing rooms from which singers and costume crew members were exiting, only to re-enter a few seconds later. The costume designer had blacked out the entire evening till midnight for cast fittings.

Erik was glad his own fittings were nearly finished. He'd sent his measurements to the designer a month before he arrived in Paris. When he arrived at the opera on the first day of rehearsals, the muslin mock-ups of his suits and masquerade costume for act three already completed. There was nothing quite as tedious to Erik as these mass fittings, stretching far too late into the night and involving excruciatingly long periods of standing up straight and being pricked by pins.

_Carlotta_.

Carlotta was waiting for him. Erik felt his mood instantly lighten at the thought of being with her. He hoped she could stay longer tonight. There were so many beautiful duets he wanted to sing with her … and so many beautiful things he fantasized about doing with her.

Erik felt a bashful flush coming over his entire body. If only he could be sure she felt the same way he did. What if she was just playing with him? What if he was just one in a string of men she flirted with and kissed? Surely she had many other men vying for her attention. She was so lovely, so strangely magnetic. Erik had never felt like this about any woman.

Erik glanced at his watch. It was almost six. He didn't want to make her wait … or to make himself wait.

"Don't stand so near, Zia. I want to speak to him in private," Carlotta shoved her aunt lightly.

"Come on, I never even got to see him! I was out when you and Benito brought him up to the apartment," Zia said as she stood on her tiptoes, craning her neck at the tall main doors of the theater.

"Zia, please!" Carlotta begged, tugging at her aunt's arm. "Just wait around the corner, won't you?"

"No, absolutely not. Are you that ashamed of your auntie, that she has to hide from your secret _amore_?"

"Oh, please!" Carlotta giggled. "You sound like Mamma or Nonna now. If you won't step aside, then I'll meet him on top of the staircase."

"Fine, suit yourself. I'll just spy on the two of you from down here. Just like Mamma or Nonna," Zia sniffed, a barely concealed smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Carlotta stuck her tongue out at her aunt, then turned on her heel. She climbed the sweeping stone steps and sat at the foot of the statue of a snarling lion. The stone was cold as ice, in spite of the warm spring air. Carlotta glanced at the massive doors.

What a sight it must be to see the opening night crowd come pressing through these great doors! As a basement-dwelling member of the costume crew, Carlotta never had the chance to witness such a rich crowd. She had to content herself with discount standing room tickets to a matinee late into the run of an unpopular opera. Just once, she'd love to be a part of the opening night gala, with its ladies dripping with velvet, furs, and jewels; and its gentlemen gallant in their fine tuxedos and dinner jackets.

Of course, in order to join the crowd and not stick out painfully, it would be necessary for Carlotta to drape herself in the trappings of wealth — something she would never be able to do. No matter how well one could sew, no matter how carefully one followed the latest fashions in the popular magazines, it was still and always would be impossible to make cheap wool look like delicate Chinese silk.

"You've got three more minutes, Carlotta! Then I'm leaving and you'll be at Nonna's mercy when you show up late for church," Zia called from the sidewalk.

Carlotta glanced again at the doors, which remained resolutely closed.

Where was Erik?

Had he forgotten their meeting, as she nearly had? Carlotta stared at her scuffed shoes, so heavy and such a dull brown. They weren't in the least bit fashionable. Shoes today were light and delicate, not these clunky lumps of the working class.

Carlotta sighed.

She looked so common. Everything about her shouted poor Italian immigrant. Why didn't she just accept her life, her future? Why was she pinning vague hopes upon Erik? Did she think, deep in her secret heart, that he could take her life and change it into something more refined? She was not meant for fine things. She was supposed to get married, have babies, and learn to economize and endure. That's what her mother had done. That's what Nonna had done. That's what all the women Carlotta had ever known in Italy or France had done.

Why should she be any different? Why should she follow her heart?

"Carlotta! There you are, sorry I'm late!"

Carlotta looked up to see Erik dart out from behind one of the heavy doors, out of breath and smiling brightly.

Carlotta's heart gave a glad thump at the sight of him, and she knew without forming a concrete idea that Erik was the reason she should follow her heart.

"Erik," she breathed, stepping eagerly toward him. She glanced down the stairs at Zia, who was peering eagerly up at her niece, a mischievous grin on her face. "I … I can't stay. Can we step inside and talk alone for a moment?"

"Sure, no problem," Erik replied, a worried frown replacing his formerly happy expression.

He held the door open for Carlotta and guided her inside to a little nook that held a bench and a small statue of Apollo.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked softly.

"No, no … I just forgot that I have to go to mass tonight, so I can't sing with you."

"Oh. I see," Erik nodded, avoiding her eyes.

"I'm sorry that I have to cancel on such short notice. Can we meet tomorrow evening instead?"

She tried to catch his eye, but he gazed resolutely at the space above her head, as if afraid to look at her.

"Are you sure you'll be free then?"

There was the slightest trace of bitterness in his voice.

"Of course, we only go to mass on Sundays and Wednesdays. We're not terribly pious, but … Erik, what's bothering you?" Carlotta gazed at him in puzzlement.

Erik, alarmed at her unexpected directness, stammered, "I — I — nothing. I mean …"

"Are you angry with me?"

"No, certainly not."

"Are you disappointed with me for canceling our meeting?"

"No … well, a little," he admitted, feeling embarrassed.

"I'm disappointed, too. But I must go, or Nonna — that's my grandmother — she'll wail and moan all night about how my soul will swim in a cold pool in Purgatory for two hundred years, and all the saints will weep, and I will never get to sleep."

Erik chuckled in spite of himself.

"I'm sorry. It's been a bad day, and I'd really been looking forward to seeing you, and when you said you couldn't come tonight …"

An unexpected boldness and certainty seemed to be guiding Carlotta, without the intervention of forethought or hesitancy.

"Did you think I was trying to find an easy way to get out of our evening together?" she whispered, reaching her hands up to cup his half-healed face. "Did you think I didn't really want to see you?"

"Yes," Erik murmured, swept into a torrent of warm emotion by her gentle touch.

"Erik," she grazed his slightly bruised cheek with her lips and felt a tremor pass through him. "I care for you. Very much."

"Oh God," Erik breathed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her gently into his chest. "I care for you, too. I've never felt this way before."

Erik leaned his head down and pressed his lips to Carlotta's forehead. She hesitated only an instant before gently guiding his head downward, so her lips could meet his. Erik allowed his hands to dive into the dark lengths of her hair, weaving the rich strands though his fingers for the sheer luxury their softness afforded him.

"Carlotta, I want to see you tonight. Can't you come after mass? Or I'll meet you somewhere," he murmured, his lips light against her cheek.

Carlotta reluctantly pulled back slightly from Erik's sheltering embrace.

"No, Erik, I can't. Mass doesn't end until nine, and I must be up at four tomorrow to go to work at the factory —"

"Ah, good God!" Erik exclaimed, lightly striking his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I knew I forgot to do something today. I'm going to talk to Mr. St. Germaine tomorrow, I promise. We've got to get you working at the opera again. You're a prima donna in the making."

Carlotta smiled wryly.

"I'm not so sure about that, but thank you for trying. Don't feel bad if they refuse to take me back, though."

"Carlotta! _Ehi_!" came Zia's voice from outside.

"That's my aunt," Carlotta groaned. "I have to go. I'm supposed to sing before communion."

"Wait."

Erik gazed down at her with such yearning that Carlotta would have given her very soul to stay with him. But if she did, her mortal body would be in grave danger of the wrath of her parents.

"You said you're going to church. Why can't I come along? Don't worry, I won't let on that we know each other. I'll sit in the back. I just have to see you, to hear you sing …"

"All right," Carlotta whispered softly, and, unable to bear the tension his unanswered longing caused her any longer, she tipped her face up to his.

"Carlotta! I'm leaving! Boy, is Nonna gonna scold you!" Zia bellowed from without.

"_Madre di Gesù_, Zia!" Carlotta muttered under her breath, reluctantly pulling herself out of Erik's arms. "Do you know where the _Chiesa di Tutti Santi _is? It's a big church, very tall, brownstone with lots of carvings, old and weathered. It's not far from where you … had the trouble with the men in the street."

"Oh, yes, I know that church. It's near my mother's apartment."

"Mass begins at seven. It's a good forty-minute walk from here. We can't go together of course — my aunt —"

"Say no more. I have to stop by my mother's place, anyway. I'll just slide right in a minute or two before mass starts."

Carlotta grinned impishly. It was all so thrilling. Erik would be there, listening to her sing, and no one would know. Not her family, not her neighbors … no one would suspect that she was singing for one man alone.

Carlotta fairly danced to the heavy doors.

"I'll look for you. But I'll pretend that I don't know you. Then tomorrow evening …" she smiled, not quite bold enough to finish.

"Till mass, then, Carlotta."

Carlotta blew Erik a kiss and ran out the door and down the stone staircase to her impatient aunt.

"I nearly left. I should have, you naughty girl. Leaving your poor aunt waiting alone in the streets," Zia fumed.

"Oh, nonsense," Carlotta laughed merrily.

"Oh, so now you're in a good mood. What happened to all your dramatic dying of exhaustion?"

"Zia, how can you be so grumpy? It's a beautiful night, I'm going to sing, mass is always lovely!"

Carlotta strode along beside her aunt, her feet feeling as though they were floating her three inches off the ground.

"I ought to get me a man … makes a girl act so jolly!" Zia muttered, trying to scowl at her niece.

Erik gathered his belongings from his dressing room, his heart singing a joyous tune. She felt the same way he did — she cared for him! Life was beautiful, magical. Erik began to hum as he strode out the doors and down the street. His frustrations with the opera, his aching face, the awful diva — nothing bothered him. Even having to visit his mother didn't seem so bad.

Erik whistled to himself the entire way to his mother's apartment. He flung open the broken door to her building and dashed effortlessly up the stairs. He raised his hand to knock.

Suddenly he hesitated.

Did he really want to spoil his good mood with another of his mother's guilt sessions? It was selfish of him, monstrously selfish, but he just couldn't bear the thought of hearing her beg him to move back in with her. Not tonight.

But here he was. He couldn't very well just leave without seeing her.

Erik slowly lowered his hand. He crammed it into his pocket, fishing for his keys. Locating them, he pulled them out and quietly inserted his copy of his mother's door key into the lock.

Erik tiptoed into the apartment. Nanette was sprawled out in an armchair, great snores emanating from her gaping mouth. Erik wandered over to the dining room table. There was a small stack of bills from the local shops lying amidst dirty dinner dishes. Erik picked up the bills, pocketed them, and prepared to exit.

He paused on the threshold, his heart squeezing painfully. What a bad son he was, avoiding his mother like this.

Still, she might be napping like Nanette. He didn't want to disturb her.

Erik quickly retraced to the table. He picked up a scrap of paper, pulled a pencil from his coat pocket, and scrawled,

_Dear Maman, _

_You were asleep when I dropped by. I didn't want to wake you. I took the bills; don't worry about them. I'll stop by tomorrow to see how you're doing. _

_Love, _

_Erik_

Erik placed the note in the center of the table, gave the short hallway to his mother's room a final, uncertain glance, then beat a hasty retreat to the door.

_What a damned coward I am,_ he thought as he galloped down the stairs. _What a damned, shameless coward._

Carlotta and Zia reached the church as the sun was going down. A small crowd of women, most of them elderly, had gathered on the steps to wait for the doors to open.

"_Ah, ecco le ragazze_!" Nonna crowed from her perch on an old, dried-up fountain.

Mamma turned away from the neighbor woman she was talking with to smile at Carlotta and Zia.

"Why so late, girls? Did Carlotta get work at your place?"

"That she did, and a fine job she did today, too. _Buona sera, _Nonna," Zia planted a kiss on her grandmother's wrinkled cheek. "Our Carlotta's amazing. She loses a job in the evening and, by the next morning, she's already got a new one!"

"That's my girl," Mamma patted Carlotta's hand and smiled at her daughter. "I'm sorry Benito scolded you last night. Babbo and I were talking, and your father will have a word with your cousin tonight. Man to man. He agrees it's not good, a man using his hands to scold a woman. A husband must show more restraint, even when he's angry."

"Thank you, Marina!" Zia interjected. "That's what I've always said, but my big brother never listens to me. One gentle word from you is worth days of bullying from me."

"_Guarda! Le porte_," Nonna exclaimed, pointing.

"Ah, they've opened the doors. Let's go in. Zia, Carlotta, do either of you girls want a candle? Nonna will have hers for Giovanni, of course."

Giovanni was Nonna's firstborn child, an elder brother who had died before Mamma was born. Nonna always lit a candle and said a brief prayer for his soul, as he had died within hours of his birth, and Nonna was never confident that the hasty baptism performed upon the boy had fully taken.

"I suppose I might as well have a candle," Carlotta said, trying to keep her face neutral.

She hoped her mother would think she intended to pray for success in her new job. In reality, though, she wanted to pray for Erik … though exactly what she wanted to happen with him, she wasn't sure.

"Are you going to light one, Mamma?" she inquired.

Mamma squeezed Carlotta's hand and smiled.

"I had planned to … for you, if you hadn't gotten the job at Zia's work. Now I don't need to."

"I'll have one, too," Zia said shortly. "Come on, let's line up, then."

Zia pulled on her black lace veil, reaching over to help Nonna on with hers.

Carlotta gazed curiously at her aunt. What could Zia need a candle for?

Zia avoided Carlotta's eyes, taking Nonna's arm to help her over the threshold of the church.

"I'll tell the priest you're here, Carlotta, then I'll find us seats. Do you have the ecus for your candles and Nonna's?" Mamma looked expectantly at Zia.

"Umm … yes," Zia replied, fishing for coins in her purse.

Carlotta took three pencil-thin candles from the jar near the shrine and stepped back so Zia could drop the coins into the collection box. Carlotta handed one to her grandmother and one to her aunt. The three women moved in close to the brightly illuminated altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary. They squeezed between the dozens of other black-veiled women who were lighting their candles and kneeling or standing in prayer.

"Help Nonna light hers, Carlotta," Zia whispered, leaning over the heads of the women in the front to put her wick to the central flame at the Virgin's feet.

Carlotta lit Nonna's candle, then her own. She glanced in puzzlement at her aunt. Zia had never lit a candle before, except for the time Babbo had been stricken with pneumonia and seemed near death's door.

Zia knelt on the cold stone floor, her fingers laced around her candle, and closed her eyes tight.

Carlotta helped her grandmother to kneel, then lowered herself to her knees, her mind a gentle whirlwind of emotions, hopes, and uncertainties. Any minute, Erik would arrive to watch her from afar and listen to her sing. Carlotta clasped her candle between her palms, her eyes focusing on the quivering yellow flame.

What should she pray for? That Erik would come to love her, as she was beginning to love him?

That he would forsake her, so that marriage to Benito would be less painful?

Carlotta closed her eyes, unable to come to a decision. She simply allowed her mind to focus on Erik: his face, his voice, the feeling of his body against hers. She prayed for these things; that they would continue to be hers in whatever form she could have them, be they reality or just sweet, vivid memories.

Carlotta heard Nonna grunting as she strained to stand, so she quickly crossed herself and rose to help her grandmother to her feet. Carlotta placed the half-burned candles in holders at the feet of the statue, then returned to her grandmother's side. When she looked over at Zia, she was surprised to see that she was still on her knees, her lips moving rapidly.

Carlotta and Nonna glanced at each other. They were loathe to disturb Zia when she was obviously so deep in prayer. But what could she be praying for so fervently?

The organist struck the deep, rending chords that signaled mass was about to begin. With a jolt, Zia opened her eyes, blinked, then quickly crossed herself almost as an afterthought.

"Well. Let's find our seats," she said sharply, inserting her candle into a holder and brushing the dust from her skirt.

Carlotta and Nonna trailed Zia down the wide center aisle of the church. Carlotta craned her neck, trying to see if Erik had arrived yet.

"Ah, Carlotta, there you are," the elderly priest hurried over to her, his eyes bright. "Your mother has a place for you and your family up front. Now, when I've finished my _ex hoc omnes_, that's when I'd like you to rise, come to the front, and do your 'Stabat Mater.' I know it's a little heavy for a Wednesday mass, but you do it so well a cappella, and the old ladies have been asking for it rather often."

"See, Carlotta? You're a star. You're already getting requests," Zia quipped, steering Nonna past the priest in search of Mamma and their seats.

"A capella?" Carlotta repeated, a twinge of dread pricking her.

It always made her nervous to sing publicly without accompaniment. She was certain that it made any errors in pitch or timing all the more apparent.

"Yes, the last time we had the organ playing with you, it was quite difficult to hear the words. It's such a quiet song, after all."

"It is. All right, a capella it will be," Carlotta agreed uneasily.

"Pssst! Carlotta! Come sit — I can't fend off the Girandelli grandmas much longer from such a prime spot!" Zia hissed.

When a last glance around the church didn't reveal Erik to her, Carlotta reluctantly settled in between her mother and aunt.

Erik sprinted through the orange-tinged streets, his feet making loud slapping sounds on the deserted pavement. His mother's place was farther from the church than he'd thought. He couldn't risk entering after the service had begun — all eyes would turn toward him, and perhaps Carlotta's family would recognize him and question her about why he seemed to be following her.

Erik dodged an old fountain, took the stone steps two at a time, and reached the main porch. He could hear a wheezy pipe organ playing faintly. Erik took a deep breath and tried to settle his pounding heart. He eased the battered old doors open and quietly slipped inside.

The dark entryway of the church left him momentarily disoriented. Then he caught sight of a dazzling wash of candles at the foot of the statue of a woman. Erik headed toward it.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen_."

Erik heard a man's voice echo out of the arched doorway to his left. He tiptoed to the threshold and saw a white robed man crossing himself.

"_Amen,_" replied the congregation, nearly all female from the sounds of the voices.

Erik slid into an obscure pew in the back row, smiling lamely at a grandmotherly Italian woman who looked askance at him.

"_Introibo ad altare Dei_," the priest announced, turning his back on the congregation and walking to the altar.

Erik folded his hands in his lap and tried to look like he understood what was going on. He'd never studied Latin, and his family had been vaguely and reluctantly Protestant. He could only recall having attended church on Easter Sundays, and occasionally on Christmas Eve. He knew nothing about Catholicism, but he figured that if he kept an eye on those closest to him and did what they did, he should be all right.

A haze of Latin syllables flowed over him. Erik quickly grew weary of trying to understand what was going on and he simply resigned himself to being utterly bewildered. Every few minutes, the entire congregation rose abruptly, then knelt, then rose again. He followed suit, feeling like an Erik-in-the-box and staring curiously at the women around him.

Most of them looked to be over sixty, sporting dark, lacy shawls on their heads or around their shoulders. Some of them had strings of small beads threaded through their fingers. As he bobbed to his feet yet again, he noted that a few also carried unlit candles either in their dress pockets or poking out of handbags.

"_Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes_!" exclaimed the priest, with an odd flourish at the front row of the pews. At this rather unsubtle signal, a young woman rose and walked to the steps of the altar area.

Erik's heart leapt to his throat. It was Carlotta! He'd recognize her slim, willow-supple silhouette anywhere.

Erik eagerly leaned forward on the hard pew, ignoring the curious glances from the old woman beside him.

She stood motionless for a long moment, her dark eyes slowly sweeping the congregation. Then, with no musical accompaniment, she began to sing.

Erik was riveted, unable to pry his eyes off of her graceful form for even a second. Her song spiraled from her throat to rebound along the great stone walls of the church, creating a magical dance of sound that seemed to twirl and spin slowly. He felt slightly disoriented as he listened, like a man suffering from mild drunkenness or a fever. Note after note flowed out in a ribbon of purity, binding Erik and all who heard.

When her last note echoed away into silence, Erik found that he was dizzy from holding his breath. The entire congregation was silent, spellbound by her song. Eventually the priest roused himself and motioned to Carlotta to be seated.

"_Hoc est enim corpus meum,_" he declared, a bit unsteadily, as he lifted a golden chalice and what appeared to be a large cracker.

Now that he knew where Carlotta was sitting, Erik didn't take his eyes off the front row of pews. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of her black shawl as she knelt to pray.

How could anyone sing so magically? Listening to her had the impact of a revelation or a religious discovery. Erik could almost imagine dedicating himself to the priesthood if it meant feeling so moved every day. But he, perhaps alone among all the members of the congregation, knew that it was Carlotta who had made the song so deeply affecting.

Carlotta, with her innate sense of melody and pitch. Carlotta, who could bring a man to his knees with just a glance from her coal black eyes. Erik grinned wryly. Any man who committed himself to the priesthood would have to forego all that was most enticing about Carlotta, and he for one was not about to do that.

"_Dominus vobiscum_," said the priest, holding out the chalice and the cracker.

"_Et cum spiritu tuo_," replied the congregation, then, to Erik's alarm, everyone rose and began to file up to the priest.

"Oh Lord, this must be communion," Erik groaned under his breath.

He'd heard of the practice, but had no clue what would be expected of him. He only hoped that women and men did the same thing in the ritual, so that his mimicry of the grandmothers around him would be appropriate.

Erik shuffled along, eyeing the women in line ahead of him in hopes of learning what he was supposed to do. With a jolt, he saw Carlotta turn away from the priest at that moment, placing a bit of the cracker into her mouth. Her eyes locked with his. Erik couldn't move. Carlotta involuntarily began to smile, then quickly looked away so as not to draw attention to herself or Erik.

"_Eh, va, va, Signore_!" the grandmother behind Erik barked, prodding him in the back with her cane.

Erik blinked and quickly caught up with the rest of the line. The woman ahead of him was muttering something at the priest. Erik strained his ears to hear, but he couldn't make out her words. The priest held out a bit of the cracker, the woman took it, and ate it. She moved out of the line, munching and Erik swallowed nervously as it seemed that his turn had come.

"_Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi_," said the priest, holding up the cracker.

Erik stared at him blankly, then hesitantly held out his hand. The priest deposited a corner of the cracker into Erik's hand. Erik put it in his mouth. The priest furrowed his brow at Erik.

"_Dominus vobiscum_," the priest stated. Erik hurriedly gulped the dry cracker down. The priest continued to gaze expectantly at Erik. Erik frantically tried to recall what he'd seen the women ahead of him do.

"Ed becomes spiritually fooled," Erik mumbled into his hand, coming as close to what he'd heard the women before him say as he could. The priest seemed satisfied and Erik retreated.

As he made his way back to his seat, he passed within feet of Carlotta. She was seated so close to the altar that he was sure she'd seen and heard his inept performance. He managed to get a glimpse of her face, and nearly burst out laughing when he saw that she was staring at him, her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Tomorrow," Erik mouthed at her, then beat a hasty retreat to his back pew.

Wedged between her mother and grandmother, Carlotta had to bite her tongue to keep from bursting into giggles. Poor Erik! She hadn't thought to ask him if he was Catholic when she agreed that he should come to mass to hear her sing. He was lucky that the priest and most of the elderly women in the church were half deaf.

By slow degrees, the mass ended. Carlotta and her family rose and trekked down the main aisle, Mamma pausing to light the candle she'd brought from home from the flame at the feet of the Virgin Mary.

"Well, Carlotta, you didn't do half bad tonight," Zia commented. "I think you even managed to impress the priest so much that he'll have you sing a capella all the time now."

"Don't even say that!" Carlotta moaned, her eyes scanning the crowded entry room for Erik. "I muddled the high C towards the end and it came out a B flat. I hate singing without accompaniment."

"Yes, you did miss the C, but you managed to hide it with a good pianissimo effect that wasn't in the original music. It worked well."

Mamma rarely doled out praise for Carlotta's singing, but when she did, her daughter always felt a precious internal glow deep within her that lasted for hours.

Carlotta beamed at her mother, who reached out a work-hardened hand to stroke her hair briefly.

"_Andiamo, io voglio ritornare a la casa_!" Nonna insisted to Mamma, poking her arm.

"_Ehi_! Careful, _Madre_! I'll spill the hot wax on myself," Mamma exclaimed.

"I agree with Nonna: I want to go home. I'm tired, and I'm certain that our Carlotta is exhausted," Zia said firmly.

Mamma sighed.

"All right, all right. I wanted to talk with Signora Fermatti, but I suppose I can do it on Sunday," she reluctantly agreed.

The Giallo women pulled their dark veils off of their heads, slinging them over their arms or shoulders.

Carlotta was disappointed that she couldn't see Erik anywhere.

The night air was chilly as the women stepped outside, the wind causing Mamma's candle to flicker alarmingly.

"Ah, _che malo_ if the candle goes out!" Mamma cried, cupping a hand around the small

flame.

"That'll mean bad luck for you, Marina," Zia intoned ominously, her arm around Nonna for support over the uneven pavement.

"Zia! Don't say such — oof!" Carlotta exclaimed, as someone bumped her from behind.

"Oh, pardon me," a familiar voice said loudly.

As he squeezed close to Carlotta in his effort to get past the Giallo women, he whispered in her ear, "Bella."

Carlotta gazed at Erik's broad back as he wove his way through the horde of women, the glow of their many candles making the street seem like a slow-moving river of light.

Carlotta smiled to herself as he vanished into the dark streets.

Tomorrow … if only it could come in a mere heartbeat.

"_Ai! Figlia-mia, no_!" Mamma exclaimed as Carlotta bumped carelessly into her arm, causing her to drop the candle to the hard pavement.

"Oh, now you've done it," Zia said, shaking her head at Carlotta as the candle first snapped in half, then guttered out on the sidewalk. "Now you're the one who'll have the bad luck. And us, no sanctified light from the church for us till Sunday."

"I'm sorry, Mamma. I guess I wasn't looking …"

Mamma sighed.

"It's all right, _Carlotta-mia_. Let's just go home."

Carlotta trailed her family, her eyes straining to see if Erik was still visible in the crowd of old women and candles.

Somehow, her previously excited mood had become quite subdued. Could the extinguishing of a candle so easily extinguish her hope and joy? Were they such fragile things that, like a candle flame, one misstep could destroy them forever?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Ah! Mother of God! Help me, make it stop!"

Carlotta stared in horror as the young girl three spots down the line from her tugged her blood coated hand from the machinery, shrieking.

"Somebody help! She's gonna bleed to death!" a woman nearby shouted, rushing to the girl.

Screams from up and down the machinery line hit Carlotta's ears as she watched the woman frantically trying to wrap up the girl's dripping arm in her apron.

Carlotta clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming or being sick. She had never seen so much blood, never heard such screams from a fellow human being.

"What's all the fuss, girls? Ah, Jesus Christ, can't you people be more careful?" the line supervisor shoved the gathering onlookers out of his way.

"Hey, Carlotta, who got hurt?" Zia, who was stationed many yards farther down, strode up to her niece.

"Z — Z — Zia! She's all bloody, she's — she's — what are they going to do? Will she be all right?"

Zia shrugged, a grim look of pity in her eyes.

"They'll probably send her to the charity hospital, get her stitched up. This sort of thing happens once a week, Carlotta. You be careful. I don't want you bleeding like that."

Zia, her arms crossed over her chest, returned quickly to her post.

"Get back to work, you girls! We got a quota to make, move it," the supervisor yelled, hustling the sobbing and bloody girl away through the huge room.

Carlotta found that her whole body was shaking. She couldn't seem to be still. When the thread that she was supposed to grab came whizzing by, she was too terrified to touch it.

"Get going, _Signorina_!" the girl next to Carlotta hissed. "Unless you want to look for another job before noon."

Gulping, Carlotta forced herself to snatch up the fast-moving thread. Her hands were quivering so much that it took her four tries to push it through the small hole in her arm of the machinery.

_Dear God, what kind of hellish place was this_?

If Carlotta hadn't been so frightened, she might have burst into tears. But she now knew that even the slight lapse in attention could mean death or dismemberment.

The unrelenting pace of the work was already beginning to wear her down, and it was only her second day. Her fingers felt fat and clumsy, her brain slow and hesitant. The constant, ear-splitting din from the machinery left her ears ringing with alarming volume for hours after she had left the factory. Her feet had been so swollen the previous night from standing in one place that she'd barely been able to get her shoes off. Carlotta marveled that Zia had managed to make herself work at this job for nearly a year. How could anyone stand it for so long? Carlotta felt that she would be lucky if she lasted out the week.

"Pick up the pace, Giallo!" the supervisor barked from behind, making Carlotta jump. "You ain't going half as fast as everyone else."

Carlotta turned her head and blanched when she saw the great streaks of blood that painted the front of the man's overalls.

"Don't look at me — keep your damned eyes on the machine! Don't need two stupid girls getting chopped in one day," the supervisor muttered, standing directly behind Carlotta and watching her closely.

Carlotta could barely focus on her task, shocked at the blood and nervous from the close scrutiny of the supervisor.

"Faster! Get those hands moving, girl! If you can't clear twelve skeins per minute, you're gonna find yourself out in the street. Faster! Move those fingers — don't try and do it all with your whole arm!"

Carlotta was on the verge of either screaming at the man to leave her alone or bursting into frustrated tears. She couldn't move as quickly as he was demanding — she just couldn't do it! And the more he yelled at her, the slower she seemed to go.

"I want you sweating, Giallo! I want you working a hell of a lot harder than this. This ain't no charity we're running here. You either keep up or you're out! Faster! I said, _faster_, Giallo!"

"Mr. Galliard! We got a jam over here!"

"Ah, why's it always gotta happen when the mechanics're on strike?" the supervisor hurried away, leaving Carlotta profoundly relieved.

"You better do what he says, _Signorina_, or maybe we'll all get in trouble. I ain't staying late tonight to make up for you."

Carlotta couldn't spare her neighbor a glance, but went on frantically grabbing at the thread and pushing it through the hole.

For five and a half hours straight, she bent to snatch up the thread, poked it through the hole, bent to snatch the thread, poked it through the hole, bent to snatch the thread …

When the high shriek of the noon whistle sounded, Carlotta nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Lunch! Half an hour — no messing about, girls, or you'll make up double time after your shift's over."

Carlotta stood rooted to her spot on the machinery line, unable to move.

"Carlotta! I got our lunch; come sit with me," Zia called from one of the benches under the grimy windows, which were never opened.

All around her, girls were rapidly finding seats, digging into pails and baskets, and chattering loudly over the unceasing grinding and clanking of the machinery.

"Carlotta!" Zia shouted again, impatiently. Seeing that her niece hadn't moved, she sighed and walked over to her.

"What's wrong?"

She shook Carlotta's shoulder lightly. When Carlotta didn't answer, Zia forcibly turned her around and peered into her face.

"Twenty-five minutes!" hollered the supervisor, walking up and down the line of girls, eying them as they ate.

"Come and eat, Carlotta. You'll pass out on the line by three this afternoon if you don't."

Zia guided Carlotta away from the machinery, forcibly but gently seating her on a bench.

"_Eh, Zerlinetta! Tua sorella è pazza_!" one of the girls laughed.

"_Zitto_!" Zia snapped.

"No Italian in the building! You girls know better," the supervisor barked.

"Eat," Zia commanded, putting a hunk of bread smeared with olive oil and dried herbs into Carlotta's hand.

Numbly, Carlotta began to chew. Zia nodded to herself, satisfied, and began to eat.

"You'll get over it, I promise. Just keep doing your best, and don't let that fat meat-bag get to you," Zia said in a low voice. "Remember, you're doing this for the family. For Nonna. For your babies, when you and Benito start having them."

Carlotta shuddered at this, the bread falling into her lap. Zia picked it up and put it back into her niece's shaking hands.

"Tonight we'll soak those hands in hot water and rosemary. Your feet, too. That's what Nonna did for me the first two months, remember?"

"Yes," Carlotta whispered, unable to hear her own voice over all the noise.

"Again, Erik! I want this passage sharp. And clean up those vowels."

Erik, standing wearily on the large stage, sighed then inhaled deeply. From the orchestra pit, Raphael struck up the opening to the impassioned duet once again. Once again, Erik began to sing. And once again, when the duet reached the leading lady's cue, Raphael played a tinkling approximation with his right hand while keeping time with his left.

"All right, stop there," Jean-Pierre called from the auditorium, an enormous score dangling from one hand. "You're doing fine through the whole 'One Happy Day' bit, but as soon as you hit the 'delicious love' part, it just dies."

"You mean," Erik began to sing in half-voice, "_'Happiness, oh delicious love_…'"

"Right. That's …" Jean-Pierre began to flip through the score.

"That's the part where the soprano is about to sing. I guess I'm just hesitating. In case she _might_ actually sing," Erik muttered the last part, casting a half-concealed glare into the row of seats behind Jean-Pierre, where the prima donna had taken up residence with a quarrelsome lap dog.

"Anyway, let's just go on to the part where you and Vivianne are negotiating when you can see her again … from 'Take this flower,' Raphael."

Erik rubbed a hand over his forehead as Raphael plinked out the closest thing to human syllables that his piano could manage. It had been like this since eight o'clock this morning. Over and over, doing the same small chunks of text, never sounding right because Erik was expected to sing duets with a piano instead of a human being.

"_Why_?" Erik sang.

"Ding-ding duh ding DING!" replied the piano.

"_When_? Erik inquired.

"Stop, stop, stop!" the leading lady proclaimed from the audience. Raphael and Erik both fell silent, their eyes meeting. Raphael shrugged in a world-weary way and rested his wrists on the keyboard. He knew as well Erik that they were in for yet another tirade.

"That's not even remotely suitable, boys!" Juliette rose, shifting her yapping lap dog from one arm to the other. "I have heard this passage sung many ways, but never with such lack of excitement. You, boy,"

Both Erik and Raphael looked up expectantly, as she had taken to addressing both by this title.

"When I sing to you about the flower, it is not a flower I am singing about," she waved both hands negatively in the air. "'Take this flower,'" Juliette prompted, speaking the lines in a loud bray. "What does that suggest to you, boy?"

"Sex?" Erik shrugged, feeling a twitch of devilish delight when Juliette drew herself up indignantly.

"Tenderness! Romance! Nothing so base as — as _carnality_. Honestly, Jean-Pierre, I really don't see why you and George feel safe using this tenor. He is crass. He's likely to foul a note, then let loose a string of filthy curses on opening night. And then, where will that leave you, hm?"

Juliette pushed at her towering hat, making the peacock feathers and blue ostrich plumes at the top wave like children at a parade. "From, 'Take this flower,' boy. And you, boy, try to put some _passion_ into it."

Raphael glanced at Jean-Pierre for confirmation, then began to play.

"Ding-ding duh ding DING!"

"_Why_?" Erik sang, trying to sound tender.

"Stop! Awful! Utterly below par. Try again, boy," Juliette seated herself, stroking the small dog.

"_Why_?" Erik sang louder, hoping that would satisfy her.

"No!"

"_Why_?"

"No!"

"WHIIIIIIEEEEEEE!? Erik dropped to one knee, his arms raised beseechingly, his face a twisted parody of a tragic music hall clown's. Raphael burst out laughing, and even Jean-Pierre chuckled into the palm of his hand. When silence fell, Erik found Juliette staring darkly at him.

"Do you find yourself amusing, young man? Do you think it will benefit you if the audience laughs at this moment of the show? Will they laugh when the lovers are separated by Vivianne's noble sacrifice? Will they laugh at the end, when the heroine dies tragically?"

"I know I'll be dancing with joy myself," Erik murmured to Raphael. The pianist snickered.

"I heard that, boy. The acoustics in here are marvelous. They are the only reason any singer worth their salt would ever agree to sing with this company. Jean-Pierre!"

"Hm?" the manager, who was beginning to regret his decision to direct _Love Songs_, raised his head.

"Skip ahead to his 'My Soaring Spirit.' Let's see what kind of butchery he can perform with that number."

Carlotta struggled against overwhelming fatigue, forcing herself by sheer will to curl her aching fingers around the thread one more time, twist her wrist despite the agony it caused her as she poked the thread through the hole one more time ... then she did it again.

And again. And again.

Mercifully, like a trumpet from heaven, the whistle blew. The twelve hour shift was finally over.

Carlotta clutched her hands together, rubbing them in agony. They felt like someone had crushed them in an iron vice for several hours, then abruptly released them. How was she going to grip a fork tonight during dinner? She'd have to eat with her hands, like a baby.

How could she bear to immerse them in the tepid dishwater after dinner? Or unbutton all the tiny buttons on her dress? Or unlace her corset? Carlotta pressed her lips tightly together and tried to keep the tears down. She hated this job — hated it with a passion she hadn't known she was capable of. But she couldn't quit. The family was counting on her, and she doubted Babbo would allow her to get away with just a scolding from Zia if she found herself unemployed again.

"Hey, Carlotta! Let's get outta this idiot factory," Zia called, gathering up their coats from the line of rusty nails above the lunch benches.

"Coming," Carlotta bit out, her hands spasming painfully simply from speaking.

Nothing had ever hurt so much — not the time she'd broken her wrist after a fall on the icy winter streets; nor when, as a child, Benito had chased her out of the apartment, enraged that she had eaten the last of Nonna's almond biscotti, and she had knocked her head on a lamppost hard enough to bring unconsciousness.

Carlotta cradled her hands one inside the other, her fingers arched like claws, and approached Zia.

"Wonder what Nonna and Mamma have planned for dinner? I hope it's something with meat in it — I sure am starving! Are you all right, Carlotta?"

"Yes," Carlotta said in a brittle voice. "I'm just hungry, too."

Zia stared at her for a long time.

"All right," she said, finally. "Well … shall we?"

Carlotta started to walk out the enormous double doors; then, just as the night air hit her in the face, she stopped.

"Oh, no," she said softly.

"What? Did you forget something?"

"Erik," Carlotta murmured.

"Oh good Lord!" Zia exclaimed. "Him again! You really are infatuated on him, don't you, girl?"

"It's not an infatuation," Carlotta replied firmly. "I promised to meet him tonight, and I want to."

"Carlotta," Zia gripped her niece's shoulder gently but insistently. "You be careful. He's not for you. You can't marry him, ever. Benito's your man. He's going to be your husband in a year, at most. Maybe sooner. He and Babbo have been talking … well, I shouldn't publicize my pathetic eavesdropping adventures, but I think that in six months time, maybe less, you'll find yourself at the alter with him. You'll be a married woman. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Carlotta met her aunt's eyes. Even though her heart sank at hearing the truth spoken aloud, she knew there was nothing she could do to change what was destined to be. She was going to be Benito's wife. There was no way to avoid it.

"I know that nothing serious can ever happen between Mr. Ballo and me. But I want to be with him while I can. Benito doesn't make me happy like Erik does. I'll never have the chance to be happy like this after I'm married, will I?"

"No, you won't," Zia smiled sadly. "Unless Benito goes mad and falls in desperate love with you. Or dies young. Well … go ahead and be with your friend, Carlotta. But you swear to me that you won't let him take your honor. If Benito even suspects you're less than a virgin on your wedding night, I really hate to think what he'd do to you."

"I promise, Zia. But how am I going to explain where I am tonight? It'll only be for an hour or two, but still …"

"Hmm, since you can't use your perennial _Don Giovanni_ costumes as an excuse anymore, how about this: I'll tell everyone that you're having trouble with some of the machinery, so the supervisor is making you stay late for more training. But I'll make it seem like you're showing promise of bigger and better things in the company, not like you're doing bad on the job already. How's that sound to you?"

"Perfect!" Carlotta smiled for the first time that day. "Then, maybe, we'll be able to use that excuse again. If Erik still wants to see me, that is."

"Oh, he'll want to see you," Zia rolled her eyes as the two began to walk in the direction of the theater. "How could any man with an ounce of sense keep from falling madly in love with you?"

"Benito never has."

"I said, with _an ounce_ of sense. That man-boy of ours has a muscle in his skull rather than a brain."

Carlotta giggled, unaccustomed to hearing her aunt speak so freely, even when they were alone together.

"Carlotta, do you ever … no, forget it," Zia pressed her lips together and turned away.

"What?" Carlotta queried.

"Well, do you ever say to yourself, 'God, get me out of this family while I still have my youth, or I'm gonna go stark raving insane!' I mean, not because you hate Babbo or Nonna or anything like that, but just because … because there's nothing for you in the role they've given you?"

"Do you feel like you've been cast in a role, Zia?"

"Of course!" Zia exclaimed, bitterness sharpening her voice. "I'm the spinster aunt who's too old to marry, destined never to marry, never to leave home, even when Nonna and Babbo and your Mamma die. I'll be shipped back to Italy to live off our cousins, maybe. Or you and Benito will grudgingly let me live with you and your children. 'Another mouth to feed, yes, but Zia has always been a hard worker, and she can help with the babies though she'll never have any of her own.'"

Carlotta gazed at her aunt, shock and regret mingling in her heart. She had never guessed that Zia felt anything remotely like this.

"Zia, you're only twenty-four! You're not a spinster."

"How many Italian girls in our neighborhood do you know who got married after twenty?"

Carlotta was at a loss. "Zia … Zerlina, your life's not over! If you want to get married, why haven't you ever asked Babbo to find you a man who is looking for a wife? There are dozens in our neighborhood, not all of them bad or old …"

Zia bit her lip, looking for all the world as if she was wrestling with tears.

"Why should I have to settle for a life of drudgery? You probably don't remember, but about three years ago I started going to all those sewing circles … well, that's what I told Babbo. The thing is, I was really going to suffragist meetings downtown. I would translate the speeches as they were happening for the women in the audience who didn't speak French. And I helped with the printed material — writing up the programs and things." Zia confessed.

"I know about that … Mamma and Nonna figured out that you weren't at the sewing circles pretty quickly. They don't approve of women voting, but I guess they didn't think you were doing anything wicked or lewd, so they just didn't mention it to Babbo."

Zia looked surprised. "Marina never let on that she suspected anything. I guess she fooled me better than I fooled her. Nothing came of it — we still can't vote. But I never felt so purposeful — so alive — in all my life. And I started to believe it. We ought to have as much power in the home as the men do. We should be allowed to disagree with the men without expecting a blow to follow."

"You'll never get a husband that way," Carlotta quipped, then froze as the truth of her own words hit her.

Zia nodded, stepping carefully up onto a high curb.

"I've thought this way all my life, but I wasn't really _aware_ of it until I heard other women saying exactly these things. I never could make myself laugh at the neighborhood boys' insulting jokes about the other girls, I couldn't simper and cast my eyes down when one looked at me, I couldn't even allow one to oh-so-cleverly deceive me and take my virtue so that I could make him marry me."

It was true. Carlotta had never know her aunt to preen or cower in the presence of eligible young men, as was proper and attractive. Her acid tongue tended to send even the most kindly men who were attracted to her into rapid retreat. Carlotta looked at her aunt with new eyes. She was not beautiful, but she was tremendously pleasant to look at, with hair down past her waist and a mouth that could light up a room when it smiled … or clear it if she was displeased.

"So that's the crux of my problem: I don't really want to 'be married' or to have a husband, but I'd die to be _in_ love and to be loved. And I've never met a man who could make me truly love him."

"Oh, Zia! It'll happen, I know it will. Don't give up. Not all men are like Benito and Babbo and the neighborhood men."

"I used to think that. But I must say, I'm rapidly losing faith," Zia's voice quavered, and she put her hand briefly to her mouth.

Erik trudged out the main doors of the theater and collapsed onto the top step. Look at all those stars! They reminded him of the brightness of Carlotta's eyes when she sang, of the candles all around her when he had dared to whisper, "bella," in her ear. Erik stretched his arms wearily over his head. It had been a rotten day all around. Only the knowledge that he would soon be with Carlotta had kept him going. She was like a calm, cool river in his overheated life.

Erik began to tap his feet rhythmically, his head aching from the long day of singing and being yelled at. He loved being a singer, loved the excitement of a singing in a opera, but there were days when he found himself wishing he worked as some sort of solitary clerk in a deserted office building, or a hunter in a vast wilderness. Anything that would give him some time away from demanding, shrill-voiced people … well, just one particular person, actually.

Erik rubbed his forehead. He really didn't know how he was going to make it through this production. He had worked with difficult artists before, both male and female. He had quarreled with baritones, been insulted by mezzo-sopranos, had a whole chorus walk out once in Germany rather than work with him. But he'd never experienced anything like the constant harping and criticizing emerging from Juliette's plump throat. Erik wasn't sure how much more he could take. And the worst thing was that his singing was suffering. He could actually hear his pitch getting less and less sure, as Juliette forced him to sing the same passages over and over. It was just like saying a word many times in rapid succession — soon the word became mere nonsense. So it was with many of the important passages of the musical. The tune had lost all logic to Erik, turning into random notes. He was certain that if he went on this way, very soon he would be singing the entire musical off-key.

At least, after all of the day's hassles and frustrations, he would have an hour or more with Carlotta … just the two of them—

"Aw, damn it!" Erik exclaimed, dropping his forehead into his hand.

His mother. He'd written that note, promising to come over tonight! How was he going to swing that, and meet Carlotta, and still get enough sleep tonight to look at least half-alive for rehearsal tomorrow?

Erik looked up quickly when the light voices of two young women came to his ears. He rose, squinted into the twilight, and felt a surge of excitement.

It was her!

Suddenly all his problems seemed miles away. Erik smoothed a hand nervously over his hair, straightened his tie, and attempted to assume a causal pose that didn't demonstrate how ridiculously eager he felt.

The two young women stopped at the foot of the stairs, began to quarrel gently in Italian, then the taller threw up her hands in defeat.

"_Buona sera, Signore __Bello_!" the unfamiliar woman called to him merrily, as she walked away into the night.

Erik blushed as he recognized the pun she had made of his name: she had called him Mr. Handsome, instead of Mr. Ballo.

Carlotta shyly climbed the stone stairs, her eyes staring down at her feet but her lips smiling uncontrollably.

"Good evening, Carlotta," Erik said, rather lamely. He had planned several clever quips and harmless double entendres during the day, but they had all flown right out of his head the minute he set eyes on her.

"Good evening," Carlotta replied. "I've been looking forward to seeing you."

"Me too."

Erik shoved his hands into his pockets, wanting to take her tightly into his arms and kiss her and tell her all the sweet things he felt for her, but he didn't dare do anything that might frighten or offend her.

"Um … the studio's booked again tonight, but the main stage is free — the construction crew is thinking of striking or something, so they've all either gone home or got Jean-Pierre holed up in his office negotiating. What I mean is, we can sing on the stage and no one's going to hear us, if you want to. If you're free tonight, I mean."

Carlotta smiled, her face sunny in the twilight shadows.

"I'd love to sing on the stage! It would be just like singing in a real opera."

Erik smiled too.

"They left the set pieces out, and one of the drops down, I think. Maybe we can sing a scene or two from _Love Songs_?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Carlotta, some of the horror of the day receding and leaving behind a warmth that only Erik could supply.

Erik opened the heavy door for her, then guided her through the dark rotunda. Carlotta paused at the door to the auditorium, a sly smile on her face.

"There isn't a gang of managers in the audience, is there?"

Erik laughed.

"You're never going forgive me for springing that on you, are you? Well, I only did it because I thought they'd hire you. And I still think they will. Which reminds me," he opened the door and led Carlotta into the vast, dark space. "I tried to get in to talk to George about rehiring you in the costume department, but he was out of the office today. Tomorrow, I promise, I'm going to camp out on his doorstep till he sees me."

Carlotta couldn't help feeling an unexpected rush of urgency at his words. All day, she desperately wished she was back in the costume studio. She hadn't realized what a good job it was until she lost it. But it was unfair to Erik for her to pin all her needs and hopes on him. She had lost her job herself. There was no reason why he should have to get it back for her.

"Well, what do you think?"

Erik hopped up onto the stage, his voice echoing into the dark emptiness. He gestured at the dimly visible painting of a squalid garret.

Carlotta reached a hand up to him.

"I think I little help getting up there."

Erik took her hand.

"On three, jump. One, two, three!"

Carlotta jumped up, then let out a cry of pain as she landed on her feet beside Erik. Instantly his arm was around her, his face concerned.

"Did I pull you too hard? Are you all right?"

"I — I —" Carlotta clutched her hand to her chest. "It's just from work. My hands are very sore. I should have remembered — it wasn't your fault."

Erik reached out and took her hands in his. He looked at them, badly swollen and riddled with brightly enflamed cuts. He slowly lifted his face to Carlotta's, an expression of caring and pity radiating from his eyes.

"Carlotta, what kind of work are you doing?"

"Just … just factory work. The cloth district. I'm one of the threaders on the tapestry and tartan machine."

"Oh, my darling," Erik murmured, lifting her hands to his mouth as gently as one would lift a pair of injured birds.

He grazed the half-clenched palm of each with his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. No medicine could have sent such shocks of pleasant warmth through her hands; no drug could have made her head spin with such beautiful ferocity.

"Do you want me to take you home? You must be tired, bella." Erik ran a finger gently along her jaw, his eyes so tender, so soft on hers.

"No, please, I want to be here, with you. Would you just hold me for a moment, please?" Carlotta asked shyly.

Erik put his arm around her shoulders and led her over to the large fainting couch at center stage. Carlotta recognized it as the divan from _Don Giovanni,_ now painted an ugly brown and recovered with shabby muslin to make it look like a pauper's couch. Erik gently seated her, then settled in close to her. He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head to his chest so tenderly it brought sharp tears to her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Carlotta. I never worked the factories, but many of my friends had to at one time or other when we were kids. I know it's one of the most awful jobs out there. You're meant for better things."

Carlotta sniffed, not wanting him to think she was rife with self-pity.

"It's for my family. I can bear it if it's to put food on the table," Carlotta said bravely, hoping Erik didn't detect the quaver in her voice.

"You won't have to do it forever, I promise you," Erik whispered, nuzzling her long hair.

Carlotta swallowed her tears and allowed herself to relax into Erik's embrace. She sighed with contentment, feeling so cared for and so protected. Why hadn't Benito ever made her feel this way? Why was Erik so different?

"Do you think I'm pretty, Erik?" Carlotta ventured, knowing that Benito would have instantly rattled off a list of her flaws in his low, monotonous voice.

"I think you're beautiful. I know you are, in fact. But I wouldn't care if you were an ugly hag. I've known plenty of gorgeous women who were horrible people, ugly inside their minds and hearts. You're beautiful inside and out," Erik replied softly, rubbing her upper arm lightly.

Carlotta reached up her hands, but found that she couldn't uncurl her fingers. Erik took one of her hands and laid it lightly against his cheek. Carlotta stroked his slightly bristly skin as best she could, her eyes moist. Slowly, feeling deliciously wanton, she pulled his head down and touched his lips with hers. Erik accepted her guidance, allowing her lips to caress his. Erik forcibly held himself back, trusting that Carlotta would lead him where he most wanted to go.

"Erik," she whispered, pulling her lips away from his. "Sing something for me. Something beautiful."

Erik slowly released her, his forehead puckered. He sat very still for a moment, lost in thought.

"Carlotta, do you think I sing well? I mean, can I sing well?" he asked at last.

"Of course. Your voice is wonderful."

"I'm not talking about my voice. My voice is a gift or an accident. I mean, do you think I have good technique? Do you think my pitch is ever unsteady?"

Carlotta was taken aback.

"I didn't notice any problems with your pitch the last time we sang together. Did someone tell you were off?"

"No, but I can sense it. You know how you can just feel your voice wanting to slip off-key when you sing? That's been happening to me all day. I think I'm losing my touch."

"Sing a scale for me," Carlotta instructed, tucking her legs up under her.

Erik inhaled and began from middle C. Instantly his voice wavered and grew flat, then sharp.

"What did I tell you? You hear that? I haven't gone all flat on a simple scale since my voice changed when I was thirteen!" he groaned.

"You heard yourself going flat, so you overcompensated and went sharp. But I'm not sure why you went flat in the first place. Sing a middle C again for me," Carlotta moved behind Erik and put one cramped hand on his throat, the other on his lower chest.

Erik opened his mouth and sang, his voice beginning to waver almost instantly.

"Hold the note," Carlotta insisted, her hands putting gentle pressure on his throat. "You're too tense. You're choking off your own voice. Relax your neck muscles. And you're clenching your stomach — let your diaphragm do the work, not your stomach."

Erik inhaled again, and was surprised to produce a ringing, perfectly pitched middle C.

"God, I'm so tense lately! Rehearsal is not doing a thing for me. I can't even feel my own muscles — my teachers taught me to do that when I was eight, for God's sake! Oh, Carlotta," he leaned back into her arms, his head resting on her soft bosom. "What am I going to do? I'm not accomplishing a thing with my intonation in rehearsal and today I forgot one of the lines from an act one duet. This is bad."

Carlotta cocked her head. "Which duet?"

"'One happy day'" Erik said miserably. "Isn't that ironic?"

"Well, why don't we sing that duet? From 'Oh, how pale I am?'"

"You mean I have to do that, 'Take this flower' bit again? Juliette, that piece of work, made me sing the, 'Why?' a good seventy times today, and she still wasn't satisfied."

Carlotta grinned.

"I won't make you do it more than once. And we'll do the whole scene right up to Vivianne's big solo at the end."

"Fine. But don't get surprised if I do the whole thing off-key."

"I don't care if you make a mistake. Just promise me you'll keep singing."

Carlotta straightened up and moved close to the orchestra pit, pretending to look into a mirror. She felt a little giddy, up on the big stage with a real set behind her and a real tenor to sing with. It was like a dream to sing from _Love Songs_ in such a setting. And this was one of her favorite scenes, too — the touching moment when the hero confessed to the sickly prostitute that he had loved her silently for over a year. Carlotta took a deep breath.

"_Oh, how pale I am_!" she sang, then spun around to look at Erik. "_What are you doing here_?"

Hesitantly, Erik sang, "_I wanted to make sure you were all right _…"

"_I'm fine_!" Carlotta snapped, pretending that she was wearing a sweeping ball gown as she primped in the imaginary mirror.

Before he knew it, Erik had launched into his "One Happy Day," solo, feeling completely at ease as he sang to Carlotta about the wonderful day when his character had first seen hers. He felt elated, enjoying the song and the act of singing it more than he had since he had started rehearsals for _Love Songs_. When his solo came to a close, Carlotta immediately launched into the duet that their characters shared. Erik moved closer and closer to her as they sang, his hands finally coming to rest on her shoulders so that his eyes could see only hers. Carlotta pulled away and coyly pretended to pull a flower from her hair.

"_Take this flower_," she offered with a slightly suggestive smile.

"_Why_?" Erik asked tenderly, not realizing that the dreaded "Why?" had come and gone without pain. He stepped closer to Carlotta, as if to take the imaginary flower in his hands.

_"__So you can come to me when …"_

_"__When?"_

_"__When it has died."_

_"__Oh God! Tomorrow!"_ Erik exclaimed, pretending to crush the flower, and something in his eyes caused Carlotta to stop singing.

She smiled in admiration at him.

"Erik, do you know how brilliantly you perform? Not just your singing, but the way you make a person believe you really are that character. You're a born actor."

Erik took a deep breath and cupped her face in his hands. "I'm not acting now. I think I'm falling in love with you, Carlotta."

To his surprise, an intensely sorrowful look flashed across her face. Then she quickly hid it.

"I believe you, Erik. Please kiss me…just once more, and then I must go."

Erik surrounded her with his arms, sheltering her, his lips hot on hers, yet making her shiver. Carlotta wanted to melt into him, to utterly lose herself in his embrace, his kiss.

But she knew that such a luxury would never be hers to possess, to ask for. She was not destined for him.

"It's late. Goodbye, Erik."

She forced herself to pull away and button up her coat.

"Will you come again soon?"

Carlotta bit her lip. She couldn't have him, could never be his. She belonged with Benito.

There was no choice in the matter. Her life was not her own. Even if she wanted to break off the marriage, Babbo and Benito would never allow it. Waves of nauseating terror shook her whenever she thought about what Benito would do to her if she showed even a slight reluctance to marry him.

But what would she do, once she was a wife, if she had no memories to sustain her? If she spent the next forty years wishing that she had spent every possible minute with Erik; that she had made enough memories of their time together to make her life bearable? Did she really think that by spending less time with him, it would be any less painful when she had to break from him forever?

"I'll come tomorrow," she vowed. "I think that maybe I …"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Carlotta's heart sank as she clamped her lips over the simple phrase, "I think I love you, too." She could see, from the disappointment in his eyes, that Erik knew exactly what she had refrained from saying.

"Well … let me walk you home. It's terribly dark outside."

Erik opened the stage door. The street lamps cast yellow gaslight at their feet, like faint rays of sunlight cutting through the darkness. Carlotta's throat tightened. She couldn't say the words, she must not let her heart touch his by saying them.

Benito … her father …

Carlotta stopped in the doorway and grabbed Erik's arm as steadily as her aching hands would allow.

"Wait. Erik, I think I might be in love with you, too. But it's complicated —"

Erik didn't hear the last part. With an inarticulate exclamation of joy, he swept her up into his arms, her feet several inches off the ground.

"Carlotta, I truly … I just …" Erik couldn't put into words what he was feeling. As he set her on the ground, he dared to do what he'd fantasized about ever since he first saw her.

Gently, and very slowly, Erik bent to kiss her. As he did, his hand crept up her waist, over her ribs, to settle ever so lightly over her left breast. He felt her gasp slightly, her heart thudding under his palm; then her body seemed to sink into his, her lips clashing eagerly with his. Erik allowed his hand to tentatively explore the contours of her supple breast, his other hand stroking the length of her glossy black hair.

"Erik … I have to go home. It's so late," Carlotta seemed to be trying to convince herself rather than Erik.

"All right," Erik drew away from her, his breathing shaky. "Let's hurry, or I really can't guarantee that I'll be able to let you go."

Carlotta smiled, feeling exactly the same way. The two walked briskly through the dark streets, Erik's arm around her shoulders, a comfortable silence enveloping them. When they reached the Giallo tenement, Erik took several steps away from Carlotta and crammed his hands into his coat pockets.

"Good night, Carlotta. I'm afraid if I kiss you, I'll never leave."

"Or my family might see," Carlotta agreed.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Erik withdrew one hand and blew her a kiss.

"Good night," Carlotta whispered back.

She watched as Erik walked away into the night, her heart soaring in spite of her weary body. They loved each other, their kisses were magical! What did it matter if her job left her in misery? What did it matter that terribly soon she would begin bearing Benito's children?

Carlotta climbed up the stairs, her horrible day at work all but forgotten. She could endure anything if she could just have an evening with Erik to look forward to. An evening of kisses and music with a man who loved her, and whom she was coming to love so deeply …

Carlotta reached the door to her family's apartment. With a secretive smile, she turned the knob and stepped inside.

Her entire family was seated around the room, staring at her.

Carlotta's heart immediately began to thump in terror. She glanced at Benito's hostile face, her stomach twisting. Her eyes skidded to Zia's face. Her aunt's apologetic and pitying expression turned Carlotta's insides to ice water.

"Daughter," Babbo's voice rumbled out of an inscrutable mask. "Your aunt said that you had to work late tonight. Is this true?"

Carlotta darted her eyes to Zia's. Her aunt shook her head slightly.

"I — I — Babbo …"

"So I sent you cousin to escort you home. It's no good, a young woman walking the streets around that factory by herself, in the dark."

Her father's gaze was terrible and hard.

Carlotta tried to catch her mother's eye. Mamma was staring at her hands, which lay idle for once, in her lap. Carlotta gripped her purse tightly, unable to feel the soreness of her hands in the face of her raw terror.

"When I got there, the guard said there was nobody in the building. So I decided I'd better wait around for a while, just to make sure. I was there two hours, and nobody ever came out of that factory!"

Benito's was nearly shouting, but no one reprimanded him.

Carlotta's palms began to sweat, her breathing coming irregularly. Dear God, how long had she been with Erik? It had felt like mere minutes, but it must have been hours. How could she have been so careless?

"I can explain. I —"

"Save your lies, daughter!" Babbo roared, making every one of the Giallos jump. "I have had enough of them. You work late at the theater, you work late at the factory — what are you really doing when you're out of your father's eye?"

Carlotta swallowed and took a deep breath. She could see from the redness of Nonna's eyes that her grandmother had been crying. Indignation rose up to replace the fear in her heart. How dare the men of the family make such a fuss and upset Nonna? If they were angry, then they should have waited up for Carlotta all by themselves, not involving Mamma or Nonna or even Zia.

Carlotta's spine stiffened. They might as well know the truth. She had done nothing she regretted, nothing to betray the family.

"Every night that I said I was working late, I was with Mr. Ballo," Carlotta declared.

Erik sat by his mother's bedside, his head in his hands.

"I tell you, no son on the face of the earth can possibly be so cruel as you are, Erik! That girl is out to kill me, and you leave me alone with her?! Do you want me dead, is that it, Erik? Am I such a horrible burden that you leave me with careless a helper who'll just 'accidentally' kill me, so that you'll be free to go gallivanting all over the world, no mother to tie you down anymore?"

"Maman, I really don't understand what Nanette did that was so awful," Erik murmured from the depths of his hands. He could tell that this was going to be a long night for him.

"Don't you listen? She started a fire in the kitchen to kill me!"

"A fire?"

"Yes."

"Nanette said she just accidentally burned some bread that she was toasting in the oven. Some smoke, some smell. No fire."

"No fire? That was only because I discovered her wicked mischief in time to save my life."

"So you put out the fire?"

"I did."

"How?"

"I turned off the oven."

"Maman, if it was really a fire, turning off the oven wouldn't have helped. I think Nanette just burned the bread a little, and you're overreacting.

His mother sat straight up in bed and glared at him.

"Tell her she no longer has a job."

"You want me to fire Nanette?"

"Yes."

"Who's going to take care of you if I do that?"

"I think you know who."

Erik rubbed his hands over his face and sighed deeply.

A dreadful silence fell over the Giallo family. Slowly, Babbo rose from his chair at the kitchen table. Carlotta felt a brief tremor of fear, then pushed it down. He could scold her all he wanted, but she was not going to make trouble for Mamma or Zia or Nonna by cowering or begging for their help. Babbo was her father. He had a sharp, brutal temper, but so did she. He had never hit her or scolded her harshly in her life. He was all bluster … yet he was still her father. And a father was to be feared and obeyed.

In spite of her vacillating courage, Carlotta stood her ground, her chin high.

"You have been meeting a man, alone, at night?" he said in a terrible voice.

"I have done nothing that I am ashamed of," Carlotta spoke as steadily as she could. "Mr. Ballo is a singer. I am a singer. We have been meeting so that we can sing together."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Benito rise.

"Daughter, you have brought shame on this family."

"I have not. Mr. Ballo is a gentleman!"

Benito snorted. "_E tu, tu vuoi essere una cavaliera, bagascia_!"

Carlotta rounded on her cousin, her eyes blazing.

"I am not trying to become a 'gentlewoman,' Benito! That's not why I've been meeting Erik. And I will not have you call me 'bitch' again! What business of yours was all of this, anyway? Who gave you the right to spy on me?" she shouted, her hands clenched into fists in spite of the pain it caused her.

Benito approached her, his steps slow and measured. Carlotta met his dark eyes, her own snapping with barely contained rage. Benito wordlessly raised his hand and slapped her sharply across the cheek. The blow sent Carlotta spinning to the cold wooden floor.

Stunned, she sat staring up at her cousin, a hand over her cheek. Mamma and Nonna let out terrified cries and rose from their chairs.

"Babbo! Babbo — he — he —" Carlotta stuttered, shocked that Benito had actually hit her. No one had ever hit her like this in her life.

Babbo stood over his daughter, and a struggle seemed to be taking place inside of him.

"It's right, what Benito did," he said at last, his voice tight and strained. "He is to be your husband. A wife must show her husband proper respect. And you will, daughter, or … or I will have to help Benito teach you to behave yourself."

It seemed to pain him to say this, but his eyes left Carlotta no doubt that his words were genuine.

"Babbo, Babbo, she's sorry! She didn't mean to show disrespect to Benito," Mamma cried, grabbing Babbo's thick arm, tears hanging on her eyelashes.

"_Non la fare piange, per piacè_!" Nonna wailed.

"Please, Babbo, no more scolding! Carlotta's always been a good girl; maybe she didn't know it was wrong to see a man alone. She's not a bad girl, not at all, she was just being a little foolish. No harm in that — please, Babbo," Mamma tugged at Babbo's arm, the tears now spilling over her cheeks.

Carlotta was too stunned to speak, sitting mute on the floor as Babbo allowed himself to be settled in his chair at the kitchen table by Mamma and Nonna. Only Zia hung back, her eyes fastened on Benito.

Benito gave Carlotta one last glare, then stalked out of the apartment.

"Girls. Go to your room. You both have made me very angry tonight," Babbo spoke without turning his head.

Wordlessly, Zia helped Carlotta to her feet and led her into their room.

"You have to come live with me, Erik — you have to! Do you want me to die here, alone? I'm so afraid of dying alone," Erik's mother sobbed, the blanket over her mouth.

Erik wasn't sure how much time had passed since he set foot in the apartment. It felt like several years.

"Maman, I can't. I'll get you another companion. I'll find someone better, someone you will like. But I can't move in here."

"You hate me."

"I do not. I love you, Maman," Erik repeated wearily, for the seventh time that night.

"If you loved me, you would move back in."

Erik let out a sigh.

"I have to go. I'll talk to Nanette, but I can't fire her tonight. It's after ten o'clock at night. Let's wait until tomorrow to do anything."

"Will you move in, Erik?"

His mother's eyes were full of hope.

"Maybe," Erik relented, feeling like he had just cut off his own hand. "But I can't do anything tonight, so please, Maman, promise me you'll try to calm down, get some sleep."

"I promise, son," she said, sounding elated. "I feel so much better already, just knowing you'll be with me! Thank you, dear. I love you."

"I love you, too. Good night."

Erik saw that Nanette was asleep in one of the living room chairs, and chose not to wake her. He found himself on the sidewalk, his joyous mood utterly and irrevocably shattered.

What was he going to do? He had as good as promised that he would move in. If he didn't, could he really stand the constant worry that his mother was alive and well? He had no doubt that there had been no fire set maliciously or even negligently by Nanette. It was a much more chilling suspicion that nagged at Erik: what if his mother had set the fire herself?

What if, in her loneliness and desperation for her son's attention, she had set a small fire in the kitchen — just enough to make the house smell a little smoky, just enough to alarm her son? If Erik didn't respond, why, she might have to set a bigger fire. Or maybe have a slight "fall" with a broken bone or two as the result.

If his mother died or seriously injured herself in an effort to get his attention, Erik was certain that he'd never be able to forgive himself.

But what about Carlotta? How could he take care of his mother, work full time, and still manage to see her?

There was only one answer: He couldn't. His mother, the woman who had given him life, who had sacrificed so he could study with the best singing teachers, who had quietly begged him not to leave her alone when he left for Europe, she had to come first now. Before his career, before his love.

Erik let out a wrenching sigh that was almost a sob. It was his fault that his mother had degenerated so severely. He had abandoned her in her hour of need. He had refused to take care of her, as a good son should. How could he ignore her last, desperate cry for help?

Erik looked up and saw that he was passing Carlotta's tenement building. He paused, glancing miserably up at the few lighted windows. Was one of them hers? Was she thinking about him? About how he'd told her that he was falling in love with her? How was he going to explain that he had to give up seeing her? How would she be able to accept that he wasn't really a cad, he simply couldn't shirk his responsibility to his mother anymore?

He had to tell her tomorrow evening. He couldn't drag this out. She deserved to have a man who could commit to her fully, not one who would always have to put his mother first. He had to have one last night with her, though. One evening of music and long, wine-sweet kisses. Then he would break it off cleanly, leaving her no false hopes.

Erik gave the building one final, longing look. Then, sighing deeply, he walked on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Babbo, I'm worried about Carlotta," Mamma said in a low voice, as she and her husband trailed the family to mass the following Sunday. "She's been so quiet these last few days. She doesn't sing, she doesn't talk at all at dinner, and in the evening, when her chores are done, she just goes right to bed without telling us about her day or chatting with Nonna. It's like she's a ghost."

Babbo frowned, just as concerned as his wife but not willing to show it.

"Maybe she's just tired, like she says. She's not used to factory work."

"Maybe."

Mamma walked in silence for a few minutes, studying the sagging shoulders and limp arms of her daughter.

"No, Babbo, I'm sure there's more to it than just being tired. She had a good night's sleep tonight, and she's still looking so pale, so tired. Do you think she's sick? Maybe consumption?" Mamma asked fearfully.

"No, she hasn't been coughing, hasn't been out of breath like consumptives always are. And this seems to have just suddenly started. No one ever turns up with consumption in one week."

"True," Mamma squeezed her black shawl between her hands, wringing it as if it were soaking wet. "But Babbo, is it good for her to be so tired all the time? She's young; she'll have her whole life to work hard. Can't she find another job that isn't so hard?"

"She can if she wants, but I won't have her out of work for more than a day to do it."

Mamma sighed. She knew that the family needed Carlotta's income to survive, but it devastated her to see her child so exhausted and spiritless.

Carlotta felt like she was dead. All through the mass she leaned against Zia's arm, her eyes glazed and unseeing. When she sang before the communion, her voice was hollow and dull. She missed several of the higher notes and returned to her seat feeling discouraged and glum.

It was so horrible, working at the factory. She'd only been there one week and her hands were already chapped and cracked, the fingers covered with a web of hair-fine cuts from the fast-moving thread. Her neck, back and shoulders constantly ached with sharp, jolting pains. At night she could barely sleep from tossing and turning to find a position that didn't cause pinching cramps in her muscles. She might have been able to bear the painful, mind-numbing work if she had something to look forward to in the evening. But now, instead of singing with Erik, she and Zia were escorted home every evening by either Benito or Babbo. Her father's eyes seemed always to be upon her, and she was certain they were suspicious rather than benevolent. The worst part was, Carlotta had been unable to get Erik a message to let him know what had happened. He surely thought that she had callously abandoned him, like a fickle child leaving behind a toy she no longer cared about.

Carlotta's eyes closed and before she knew it, Zia was shaking her awake.

"Carlotta, mass is over! Wake up, before Nonna sees you."

Carlotta opened her eyes groggily. At the other end of the pew, Mamma was frowning at her, her eyes wreathed with concern.

"Benito," Mamma said as the Giallo family was leaving the church. "Why don't you and Carlotta go for a walk in the park before lunch? There's plenty of time, and Carlotta could use the fresh air."

"I could use the fresh air, too. I think I'll come along," Zia said, pulling off her black veil and stuffing it in her coat pocket.

"No, Zia, let them be alone." Babbo glanced significantly at his younger sister and lowered his voice to a whisper. "They must get used to seeing each other in the proper light."

Zia scowled slightly.

"If Benito doesn't have the wherewithal to woo her properly, why should you have to do it for him?" she whispered back.

Babbo waved her away. He was worried about his daughter; more worried than anyone would ever know. But maybe a bit of romance from her future husband was all she needed; something to put the spark back into her eyes. It was only fitting, in any event, that the two begin to see each other as spouses instead of just cousins. Benito certainly wanted their union to be finalized within the next four months, at most.

Benito walked with Carlotta to the small grassy park a few blocks from the church, his hands in his coat pockets. The two strolled in silence along the cement path, their bodies not touching. Carlotta was utterly lost in her dim, weary thoughts. Her eyes gazed blankly at the faces that flowed around her like cold water.

Suddenly Carlotta's vision snapped into focus with a shock.

_Erik was sitting on a park bench, staring at her!_

Carlotta's throat seized and she nearly called out to him. Benito, noting the direction of her gaze, abruptly threw a possessive arm around her shoulders.

"Eh, what're you looking at, _bambino_?" he snapped at Erik as he and Carlotta passed by.

Carlotta lowered her head and stared blankly at the ground beneath her feet. Benito had not recognized Erik. But Erik … what must he have thought, seeing her in the arms of another man? After she had disappeared for days on end, without a word of explanation for her behavior?

It was obvious what he must think: She was nothing but a cruel flirt who had played with his heart, got bored, and moved on to someone new.

Tears welled up in Carlotta's eyes, as much from the repulsive feeling of Benito's arm around her shoulders as from the knowledge that she no longer had any chance to see Erik again. He would never believe her, never forgive her. She now had no way of being with him ever again in this lifetime. He might as well have died.

"What's wrong with you?" Zia whispered to Carlotta, as the Giallo women bustled around the tiny kitchen space, preparing the evening meal. "You look like you're about to keel over."

"I'm fine," Carlotta replied listlessly, her fingertips dangerously close to the blade of the knife she was wielding.

"You tell me the truth, niece," Zia hissed firmly, dodging Nonna as the old woman lugged a basket of raw clams to the stove. "Did Benito do anything to you? You can tell me."

Carlotta shook her head.

"Then what's wrong? You're like a mourner at your own funeral."

Carlotta didn't reply, tears threatening. She shrugged and turned away from her aunt.

Sunday dinner was always a big affair in the Giallo household. It was the one day of the week that, come hell or high-water, the table would hold meat, plenty of thick sauces on the pasta, and even a small dessert or two from the local bakery. Carlotta usually was at her most vibrant on Sunday evenings, sitting for long hours at the table with her family as the cheap wine poured and poured, laughing and talking just as heartily as the rest.

Tonight, however, she picked without appetite at the delicate white clam sauce that was Nonna's specialty, mushed her veal fried with portabella mushrooms until it was the consistency of porridge, then sighed and asked to be excused.

Babbo stared at her with astonishment.

"No, certainly not! You want to disrespect your mother and your Nonna? They worked long and hard over this meal."

"Not to mention you and me, fellow chopper-of-the-parsley. Here, drink some more wine," Zia hastened to fill Carlotta's glass, trying hard to keep her tone light. She could see from Carlotta's expression that she was near tears.

"Benito, where'd you get this wine? It's better than usual," Zia asked.

"None of your business," Benito replied, his mouth half-full of the tender veal.

Carlotta shuddered. He looked like an ogre devouring a child.

Slowly, the meal passed. Carlotta could hear the jolly conversation jangling around her, but it sounded like gibberish to her weary ears and she couldn't bear to force herself to take part in it. At last, around seven, Mamma and Zia rose to clear away the dishes.

Carlotta, her chin resting heavily in her hand, closed her eyes in hopelessness. Now she would have to wash all those soiled plates and cups and platters, then go to bed and try not to think about what losing Erik was doing to her heart, then get up and go to work once again.

Benito rose from his chair and lit a cigarette.

"I gotta go out," he said in his low voice.

A tiny part of Carlotta's torn heart cheered at this. Then, unexpectedly, she looked up to see him smiling at her from his place by the table.

"Maybe tonight Carlotta would like to come with me," he said.

Carlotta's head jerked up abruptly. She looked first at Zia, then at Babbo. Had she really heard that? No one in the family had _ever_ gone with Benito when he went out at night. Not even Babbo.

No one so much as dared to ask what it was that Benito did on his evening excursions. Carlotta had tried to find out from Babbo once, but all her father would say was, "It's better not knowing, daughter. He gets us our wine, even thought it's illegal now; he brings home cash money. Better we don't try to find out how he gets it."

Carlotta saw that all of the members of her family were staring at Benito. The silence in the room was heavier than lead.

"Oh, but Benito, it's not a good night for her to go out. She has to work tomorrow," Mamma ventured.

"Carlotta never gets out much," Benito replied, his eyes raking his cousin's body. "I'll get her home good and early."

"Well, I guess that if you want to escort her out …" Babbo said hesitantly, glancing at Mamma for help.

"It's the least a man can do: show his future wife a good time," Benito said, his eyes on Carlotta's lower throat.

"Well," Mamma sat down and picked up her sewing, her eyes on Babbo. "If Babbo says it's all right, then I suppose you may go, Carlotta."

Carlotta darted her wide eyes to her father, praying that he would refuse.

"I guess it's all right for you to go. You'll be with Benito. Just make sure you get her back before nine-thirty."

"Do you want me to come with you, Carlotta?" Zia looked at her niece, her eyes revealing how frightened she was.

"I didn't ask you," Benito growled.

Zia continued to look at her niece, until Carlotta reluctantly shook her head.

Benito took Carlotta's arm. He grabbed her coat and his, then quickly shut the door behind them.

The two walked down the three flights of stairs and stepped out onto the dimly lit sidewalk. Benito stopped and lit a fresh cigarette. He stood very still, smoking and staring at the street. Carlotta, her stomach tight and nervous, shifted from one foot to the other.

"Are … aren't we going somewhere, Benito?" she ventured at last.

"Yeah," he replied, not looking at her.

Carlotta leaned up against the cold brick of the tenement. Maybe one of Benito's awful friends was coming along with them. She hoped not.

Presently a great, shining black shape appeared out of the evening gloom. Carlotta's head lifted instantly, curiosity displacing her unease. It was a cab. One rarely saw cabs or carriages of any kind in this neighborhood, just the occasional donkey-drawn wagon. People rich enough to ride in such elegant conveyances generally did not want to drive through such a lower-class and dangerous section of Paris.

The cab slowed to a stop right in front of Benito. He tossed his cigarette on the ground, stomped it out, and motioned with his hand to Carlotta.

"Come on."

"In there?" she asked incredulously.

"Hurry up!" he snapped as he pulled the door open.

Carlotta darted to his side, frightened but still a bit dazzled. She'd only ridden in such a grand thing one time in her life, and that had been twelve years ago back in Italy.

Cautiously she bent her head and climbed in.

To her surprise, there were two large men already inside. Carlotta perched gingerly on a seat facing them. Benito slid in beside her and slammed the door. The driver clucked to the horses and the wheels began to roll.

"_Va bene_?" Benito greeted the men, his face serious and stony.

"_Si_."

"_Chi è la bella_?" one man inquired, peering at Carlotta with the expression of a butcher sizing up a young calf.

"_Mia donna_." Benito replied.

Carlotta wasn't sure what scared her more: these two stoic men, or hearing Benito call her "my woman."

They rolled along through the dark night. Carlotta soon relaxed her grip on the fabric of the seat, assured that she wasn't going to go flying down onto the floor at every stop and turn. She allowed herself to glance at her cousin. He was staring out the window, his expression thoughtful and composed, yet somehow also excited. Like a man reading a thrilling chapter in a book.

Carlotta shivered and leaned back in her seat, hoping that this strange ride would soon be over and she could go home.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of a large warehouse. The two men opened their doors and got out. Benito leaned across Carlotta and said something in a low voice to one of the men. He got out and grabbed Carlotta's wrist.

"Come on," he barked as he pulled her into the crisp night air.

Outside on the gravelly ground in front of the warehouse, Carlotta wrapped her arms around her chest and watched as the men conferred briefly with Benito. He nodded and the men turned and began to walk toward the warehouse.

"Aren't we going to go somewhere, Benito?" Carlotta asked, glancing at the industrial desolation around her.

"This's somwhere, isn't it?" Benito grinned suddenly. "They should be about ready. You keep your mouth shut inside, _capisci_?"

He took her hand, almost tenderly, and led her to the door of the warehouse.

"I want you to watch this close," he said, his eyes warm on hers. "I want you to know what I can do."

Benito opened the small staff door and guided Carlotta inside. It was bright with many industrial-strength gas lights, and Carlotta was completely blinded for a moment. She blinked hard and gazed around her, trying to get her bearings.

When her vision cleared, she was baffled by the strange scene laid out before her. Three men, bound tightly and wearing cloth gags sat in spindly chairs in the center of the vast space. Behind them stood the two men from the cab. Benito smiled sweetly at Carlotta and moved her to within twenty feet of the men.

"When Mr. Santanelli gets here, I want you to stand in this spot exactly. Don't budge, _bella_, you hear? Good girl," Benito said.

He continued to hold her hand, looking at the men tied to the chairs and the strange men from the car with a placid expression.

Carlotta's insides were icy and her mind was a confused whirl. What was going on here?

Why had Benito brought her to this strange warehouse? Why were those three men tied up?

The staff door flew open suddenly, making Carlotta jump. Benito smiled broadly at her, patted her hand, and went over to stand with the men from the car.

"Well, well, well!" a voice boomed from the staff door. "Lookit what my boys caught!"

A short, very fat man strode into the room, followed by three large men in dark suits. Carlotta stared at his wide and luxurious overcoat, marveling at the amount of wool and fur trim it must have taken to construct the sweeping garment.

The man, who must be Mr. Santanelli, began a slow yet deliberate approach towards the bound men, who watched him with terror-filled eyes.

"Your boss must think he's pretty smart, huh boys? I can just see Deluca plannin' it with the three of you: why don't we take down Santanelli's operation for some fun, huh? It's the weekend, we got nothin' better to do," he said as he leaned down and peered into the faces of the bound men. "Well, I'll give you something to do."

He snapped his fingers at Benito and walked quickly out of the way.

Carlotta let out an involuntary shriek, her hands flying to her mouth as Benito and his two companions rushed across the room. The three bound men crashed to the floor as they struck, their chairs clattering loudly. Benito and the men from the car began to beat and kick the tied men, their victims emitting horrible screams of pain beneath their gags.

"Yeah, that's the way to take 'em to school, boys!" Mr. Santanelli applauded as the attackers continued to work on the bound men.

Carlotta closed her eyes, too terrified to believe what she was seeing. She began to pray aloud.

"Ave Maria — Ave M — Maria — oh, God!"

Presently the hideous screams of the beaten men quieted, the muttered exchanges of the men from the car and Mr. Santanelli subsided, and Carlotta felt a warm finger run down her cheek. She opened her eyes to Benito's blood-streaked face.

"You liked that one, huh baby-doll?" he said softly, his finger lingering at the corner of her mouth.

Carlotta couldn't speak. She was trembling so hard that she could barely keep on her feet. Benito smiled with genuine pleasure and guided her back to the cab.

The ride back to the Giallo tenement was as long as any event Carlotta had ever experienced. She clung to her seat, afraid to look at the men across from her, afraid to look at Benito. She was certain that they were taking her out to the banlieu to kill her for what she'd seen.

When the cab rolled slowly to a stop in front of the apartment building, Carlotta doubted that Benito would really let her out. Surely he would leave, then the two murderers would take her on to the place that would be her grave.

"Get out!" Benito snapped at her from the sidewalk.

Carlotta pulled herself numbly from the car. The vehicle glided quietly away into the night. Trembling, she kept her head down. She could hear Benito's unsteady breathing, but she didn't dare look at him.

"_Bagascia. Mia bagascia_," he laughed at last.

His hand went roughly around the back of her head, his blunt fingers tangling in her hair. He pulled her in to his kiss, biting at her lips, his free hand tugging at the neck of her dress.

Instinctively, Carlotta shoved him in the chest, sending him stumbling back a few steps. Benito laughed, a streak of blood glaring brightly on his cheek. With his hand still in her hair, he pulled her into the dark apartment building.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Listen to me, Babbinetto," Zia said as she cornered Babbo nearly in the hall outside the Giallo's apartment one week later. "If you don't do something about our Carlotta, I'm going to take her and run away with her to the circus, and marry her off to a clown. I swear I will, if only to make her smile again."

Babbo shifted the heavy cloth sack of unsold carrots and beets to his other arm, his face as grim as his little sister's. For the past six days, Carlotta had grown steadily worse. She had stopped talking altogether, barely managing a "_no_" or "_si_" when asked a direct question. Her long hair hung in a single messy braid that she had not combed or washed since Sunday. Whenever anyone happened to catch her eye, she lowered her head and seemed to retract into herself.

"I know, I know," Babbo spoke in a low voice, leaning up against the Giallo door. "She's becoming more and more like … like that poor Rondelli woman back in Milan, remember her?"

"The one whose husband used to beat her daily? The one who eventually went mad and killed herself? But no one's beating our Carlotta. Right?"

"I'm certainly not! I've never laid a harsh finger on any woman in my life."

"What about Benito?" Zia glanced down the hall, hoping she might have a few minutes more alone with her older brother before one of their neighbors or family members interrupted them.

"Benito only hurt her that one time, and he won't do it ever again. I've spoken with him."

"Well, it can't just be the job at the factory. She's getting better at it. The supervisor hasn't had to yell at her all week, and that's pretty good for a new worker."

"Zerlina, do you think it's the man she was seeing? You said that she didn't let herself go too far with him. But what if she did? Do you think she might be —"

"Accusing my niece of being loose, shame on you Babbo! Carlotta's a good girl. Goes to church twice a week, listens to her Babbo and her Mamma."

"Hmf," Babbo scowled and rubbed his free hand over his forehead in frustration. "These modern times! In my youth, no one ever had to worry about whether their children might behave like married folks with people they barely knew. Everyone waited until they were good and wed, and no one's daughter was ever deceived by a man her parents had even never met."

"I will ask her. I don't think that her honor's been compromised, but something's definitely wrong. I'll sneak into the confessional in place of the priest tomorrow if I have to."

Zia had a stubborn look on her face that Babbo could remember from her earliest days. He knew that it would be useless to argue with her.

"I won't have you badgering her, but if you must be the one to talk to her, please try to be subtle about it."

"I'm always subtle. Maybe it will be easier for her to talk to me if she and I are alone together. Out of the apartment, I mean."

"Maybe."

A light came into Babbo's eyes. "Didn't she get tickets reserved for the two of you for some show awhile back? Some show at the opera?"

"Um … yes, she did! They're at will call; she got them on her employee discount about a week before they fired her. They'll still be there, I'm sure of it. Good memory, brother."

"Take her to that. Maybe get a nice snack at the baker's afterward. But Zia, I warn you that if you are planning to arrange a rendezvous with that man of hers —"

"Oh, Babbo, I don't care about that man! I just want my Carlotta back. If losing him made her like this, then it's better she never sees him again. It would only make everything worse. But if it's something else …"

"Then we will fix it. As a family," Babbo said firmly, looking relieved. "Carlotta's lucky to have you, Zia."

"Erik? Erik!" Daroga hollered from his bedroom. "You going out tonight?"

"What?" Erik's voice drifted in lifelessly from the living room.

Daroga sighed and poked his head around the door.

"I said, are you going out tonight? Or are you planning on moping around this dump like you've been doing all week?"

"I don't know. I don't care."

Erik's chin was resting in his hand, a book lying open but unread in his lap.

"Are you up for a night on the town or not? Because I'm going out, my man! I've been stuck on the graveyard shift for three weeks, and this is my one night a week out of uniform. I'm gonna paint the town red. Come on, you gotta get out for a while," Daroga perched on the edge of a chair, buffing his shoe with an old handkerchief. "See the sights, see the pretty girls doing the can-can."

Erik sighed and said nothing.

"So your girl told you to get lost. Big deal!" Daroga exclaimed, throwing his handkerchief at Erik. "You've dragged around like a sick cat all week, but now it's time to get over her. Come on, get yourself all slicked up. I'm taking you out."

"I'm really not up for another of your patented nights of slumming and absinth, Daroga."

"Horsefeathers!" Daroga grabbed Erik by the collar and peered into his friend's face. "You're coming with me, mister! That's an order."

"Oh, Lord, Daroga! Knock it off," Erik grinned in spite of himself.

"Now, I know for a fact that you've been mad to see that Russian Thingamajig Songsters —"

"Russian Gypsy Chorus," Erik laughed.

"Right, right, and I know I said I'd rather die that sit through that droning foreign stuff."

"You said you'd sooner do a patrol with the ossified idiots in La Rue de St. Germaine — whatever the hell that means."

"But as a favor to you, my friend, I'll go with you to your show. See what a sacrifice I'm making for you? My one night off, and I'm willing to waste it listening to a bunch of fortune tellers chanting about borscht."

"No, they're great! They're pioneers in counterpoint and tritonal technique.

"So does that mean you'll get off your duff and put on ol' dinner jacket?"

"All right," Erik agreed. "But promise me you'll behave. No muttered witticisms, no pretending to fall asleep."

"I'll be the best date you ever had. Except if you try to kiss me good night, I'll have to freshen up that black eye of yours."

Zia stood in front of the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You are _not_ too tired to go to the opera, Carlotta. You slept late, and you've done nothing all day except help with the meals. Babbo wants you to get out of the apartment for a few hours."

"Why?" Carlotta asked dully from her side of the girls' bed.

"Because he says so! He's your father: do you question your father? Come on, it'll be great. Just you and me, no Benito."

A spark of life jumped into Carlotta's eyes.

"Benito's not coming?"

"He'll probably walk us there, but that's it," Zia flapped her hand dismissively. "We'll be modern girls on a night out. Come on, get dressed."

Zia grabbed Carlotta's best dress and tossed it at her.

"Iron that, find some stockings, do your hair. We'll have a great time, I promise."

Carlotta's hollow eyes began to take on some life.

"Just you and me? Promise?"

Zia moved away from the door and knelt beside the bed.

"Did Benito do something bad to you, Carlotta? You can tell me."

Zia tried to look into Carlotta's eyes, but her niece lowered her face.

"I … I'd better get ready."

The opera was bathed in bright gas light. Carlotta huddled close to her aunt, not sure why she felt shy in this familiar place. Perhaps it was because she knew that Benito was waiting for her out on the front steps of the opera. He had escorted them from the Giallo tenement, and had vowed with a chilling smile to wait outside for the girls the entire time, so that he could conduct them home again.

"Forget about Benito," Zia said firmly. "He can't bother us in here. We've got two or three hours away from the family. Enjoy it."

Slowly, as the girls waited for curtain time in the nearly empty theater, Carlotta began to relax. It was true: Benito might easily get in to her work and hurt her, he might very well creep into her bedroom at night and terrorize her if he wished, but there was no way the snobbish ticket-taker in the lobby was going to let a scruffily-dressed Italian man into the opera without a ticket.

She was safe.

Carlotta took off her coat and stretched her feet out in front of her, crossing her ankles. She never dared sit like this at home. Mamma would reprove her for being unladylike.

Zia saw her do it, grinned, and did the same.

"So, this is gonna be in French, right?"

Carlotta shook her head.

"Russian, I think."

"So how're we supposed to understand what's going on?"

Carlotta shrugged.

"I guess that's why the tickets were so cheap. And why there aren't too many people here."

Slowly, as the hour of eight approached, a small crowd of about a hundred or so gathered in the auditorium. They seemed to be mainly lower-class Russian immigrants and pale intellectuals from the university. Carlotta gazed curiously at these people who were outside of her usual social contacts. The immigrants were talking softly in Russian while the intellectuals conversed noisily in French, often shouting at one another from across the theater.

It was a lively, yet small, audience and Carlotta felt more and more at ease.

"What's the name of the show again?" Zia murmured to Carlotta.

"I don't know. The ticket seller just told me it was a Russian singing troupe when he came around offering tickets last month."

"Hey, excuse me?" Zia leaned across the seats to her left where a young Russian couple was sitting.

"Zia! You mustn't talk to strangers," Carlotta hissed. "They're not from our neighborhood."

"Why not talk to them?" Zia hissed back. "Excuse me, do you speak French?"

"Little bit," the man replied.

"Do you know the name of the performers?"

"Performers?"

"Yes, the group that will be singing — do you know the name they go by?"

The man and his wife conferred briefly, then the man turned back to Zia.

"Think in French you would say it 'The North … Forest-Farm?'"

"Forest-Farm?"

"Yes, like farmland, but for trees."

"Orchard?"

"Yes, yes, orchard," he beamed.

"The Northern Orchard? Thank you."

Zia turned back to Carlotta.

"See? There's no harm in talking to people who aren't from the neighborhood. Babbo and Nonna will make a shut-in of you if you listen to them."

The lights dimmed and the curtain rose. Carlotta vowed to lose herself in the music. She had to escape from her life, even if only for a few hours.

To her surprise, it was easy for Carlotta to understand what was happening on stage, even though not a word of the singing made sense to her. The gypsies danced as they sang, moving more fluidly than any opera singer she had ever seen. Carlotta was captivated by the honesty of their emotions, though she wasn't sure what had provoked them. Every gesture riveted her; every note of their singing seemed to hold a thousand subtle meanings.

When the final curtain fell, Carlotta felt emotionally drained. And to her surprise, she felt better than she had in days.

The entire audience, as moved as she, rose to give the singers a standing ovation. The house lights came up and Carlotta looked over at her aunt. Zia was dabbing at her eyes and sniffing.

"That was beautiful! I haven't the faintest idea what went on up there, but it was beautiful," Zia sighed, leaning back in her seat.

The two girls sat in silence, watching the small crowd disperse.

"I wish we didn't have to go home," Zia said as she stretched her arms over her head.

"Me too."

Carlotta hated the way her stomach was beginning to tighten, her heart beginning to beat rapidly. She hadn't realized how unpleasantly tense she was until she'd had a chance to feel safe and relax. She didn't want to go outside where Benito stood waiting. She didn't want to think about the brutal and easy way he had killed those men.

Carlotta leaned her cheek on her aunt's shoulder.

"Zia, I really don't want to marry Benito. I can't do it," she said softly.

"Why not, Carlotta-mia?"

Carlotta saw that Zia was fully listening to her, her eyes encouraging.

Carlotta took a deep breath.

"He … hurts people. He — oh no!" Carlotta broke off and abruptly ducked down low in her seat.

"What? What on earth are you doing?" Zia stared at her with incredulity.

"It's Erik! I saw him over there. Oh, I can't let him see me," Carlotta hunkered down with her hands over her face.

"Ah, your Signore Bello is here, is he? Well, why are you hiding like that, ridiculous girl?"

"He — I haven't seen him in days, and I left without ever telling him good bye, and then he saw me walking with Benito and oh, what must he think of me," Carlotta wailed.

"Well, that was a fine bit of gibberish. I want to meet this young man at last. I've heard about how wonderful he is but I never once got to see him up close."

Zia rose, her eyes sweeping the auditorium.

"No! Please, Zia!" Carlotta grabbed Zia's sleeve and stared up at her with pleading eyes. "I don't want him to know I'm here. I wouldn't know what to say to him, I …"

"You really don't want me to say hello to him, do you?"

"No, I really don't."

"That's too bad, because I'm going to," Zia crowed, dancing out of Carlotta's grasp.

"Zia! Oh, Lord!" Carlotta moaned, sinking even lower in her seat.

Zia strolled through the auditorium, eyeing the handful of people who lingered in their seats. There were several middle-aged Russian women, a pair of bickering university students who looked barely old enough to shave, a man snoring undisturbed in the front row …

"So I see this absolutely gorgeous girl looking around for someone, and I start to pray, 'Please, let it be me!' and, what do you know! My prayers are answered!"

Zia turned to the handsome young man who was leaning against the edge of the stage. She couldn't suppress a grin when he raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"I'm right, aren't I? I'm the one you want."

"You're the one I want to slap," Zia laughed.

This couldn't be Carlotta's Bello. His hair was too black, his eyes like two coals instead of sky blue.

"Why is it the pretty ones are always peppery?"

"I'm 'peppery' because I can't find the man I'm looking for. And no, I don't mean you. He's a friend of my niece."

"Your niece must be an infant, at the most."

"Not the least bit witty," Zia sniffed, unable to suppress a smile of amusement. "I wonder if that's him? But what in the world is he doing?"

Up on the stage, Erik was enacting an elaborate pantomime between himself, several of the gypsy performers, and a pair of men in dark suits. Every so often the entire group would let out loud shouts, then begin pantomiming at him. Daroga jerked a thumb at his friend.

"Erik's the one you're looking for? Aw, why does he have all the luck? Wait a minute — are you Carlotta?"

Zia shook her head. "Carlotta's my niece. The one who must be an infant?"

Daroga smiled broadly.

"That clever old devil. He never told me his girl had such a beauty for an aunt."

Zia rolled her eyes, but was unable to resist his infectious smile.

"Mr. Ballo! Hey, Signore Bello!" she called to the man on stage

"You'll never get him that way."

Daroga let out a piercing whistle, then cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Hey Erik! Girl here to see you!"

On stage, Erik glanced out at his friend, made a series of huge gestures at the singers, then jumped down into the seating area.

"What's up?"

"Good God, Erik, what were you doing up there? You looked like an idiot pitching a fit!"

"I was trying to tell the company about the time I saw the Russian Imperial Choir perform just outside Paris. You'd be surprised how much you can get across, even if you don't speak the same language."

Daroga made a face at Zia.

"Truly a lesson for us all," he quipped.

Erik turned to Zia curiously.

"Are you the one who wanted to see me?"

Zia nodded, a devilish smile on her face.

"I'm Carlotta's aunt. She's sitting right over there," Zia pointed blatantly at the seats where Carlotta sat as bent as an elderly woman. "She's afraid to come over and see you because she thinks you're angry with her."

"Angry?" Erik looked puzzled.

"Her Babbo — her father — found out she was sneaking off to see you, and she got in a great big row with the family. So …" Zia shrugged.

"You see! I told you it was probably something like that," Daroga jolted Erik ribs with his elbow.

"Then the girl started mumbling some kind of nonsense about you seeing her in the park with Benito, my nephew, and I don't know what all —"

"So that would make the guy her brother, huh?" Daroga glanced at Zia.

"Her cousin, actually."

"Cousin, same difference. And you thought she had gone and fallen for a new guy."

Daroga poked Erik again.

"Quit it!" Erik smacked his friend across the chest.

"I guess I'll just let you go talk to her, and I'll stay here and talk to this … lovely aunt," Daroga grinned at Zia, who tried to scowl back, but burst out laughing instead.

Erik swallowed and turned away from the two. Could it really be as simple as that? Her family forbade her to have contact with him, and a foolish assumption on his part about her cousin? Then why was she hiding in her seat?

"Carlotta?" Erik said hesitantly.

She raised her head, then sat up sheepishly.

"Hello."

"I … your aunt spoke to me. Um …" Erik sat down awkwardly beside her. "I wish you had told me what happened with your family."

Carlotta chewed her thumbnail nervously.

"Babbo wouldn't let me to see you. I couldn't get a message to you — he wouldn't let me or Zia out of his sight."

"Oh," Erik looked at his shoes. "Your aunt, she said that was your cousin I saw you with in the park."

"Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry! I knew you'd think the wrong thing. I don't love him, I love —" Carlotta broke off, her face turning red.

Erik relaxed a little and put his arm tentatively around her shoulders.

"I should have trusted you more."

"I thought you were angry with me. I mean, Benito was the one who beat you that night."

"Was he? I thought his voice sounded familiar," Erik smiled wryly.

Carlotta couldn't look him in the eye. She knew she was deceiving him by omission. Yes, Benito was her cousin. But he was also the man whom she would marry in a year's time. Or less. Why not tell Erik the truth and make a clean break with him?

Erik still felt uncomfortable. There was something unbreachable standing between them now, and he wasn't sure exactly what it was. Had her family's disapproval of him influenced her more than he suspected? Was she trying to tell him that she would never be with him again?

"Can we …" Erik trailed off.

He didn't want to put her in an awkward position by forcing the question. But he had to know: Would he be able to see her again? Or was this going to be the last time?

"Hey, you two!" Daroga approached with Zia, his arm slung around her waist. "This one here's never seen the can-can before — can you believe it, Erik? So I'm fixing to take her on over to the Latin Quarter for some of Raphael's Parisian Special."

"What — now? Tonight?"

"Zia, you can't! Babbo would kill you."

"I'm a grown woman. I can do as I please. I'm going to see the can-can dancers with Daroga."

Carlotta glanced at Erik, alarmed.

"Daroga, I really don't think it's such a good idea," Erik began.

"Say Erik, why don't you and your girl come along? Party of four, wine and l'amour!" Daroga said.

"Come on, Carlotta! It'll be fun," Zia enthused.

"What'll we tell Benito? He's waiting for us on the front steps. He'll notice if we never show up, you know," Carlotta shuddered.

"Listen, niece, I'm going with you or without you. If you want to walk home alone with Benito, that's your choice. But I'm going out on the town with Daroga."

"Come on, live a little, you old shoe!" Daroga gave Erik a light kick.

Carlotta and Erik glanced at each other. Carlotta had no desire to be alone in the dark of night with Benito. And Erik that he had to go see his mother tonight, unless unforeseen circumstances prevented him.

"Well …" Carlotta began.

"All right, but just for a little while. An hour, at most," Erik said cautiously.

"Great! It'll be wonderful, I promise you! A fantastic time for all."

Daroga grabbed Zia's hand and twirled her around. She laughed and shoved him lightly in the chest.

"We'll go out the stage door. That way your cousin won't see us," Erik said, a worried expression clouding his face that matched Carlotta's own expression perfectly.

Daroga tossed Erik a bag of peanuts that he'd been surreptitiously munching on during the performance.

"Eat! Smile! You two look like you're going to a firing squad rather than the Black Cat Club!"

The four exited at the back side of the opera and hastily walked several blocks through the dark streets. Carlotta's eyes flashed at every noise and every pedestrian, fearing that Benito would appear. Only when they were a good half-mile from the opera did she breathe a sigh of relief.

"Relax, folks! This is gonna be a blast! You're going to love dancing the can-can, Miss Zia!" Daroga said, snapping his fingers anticipation.

"Zia, we are going to get in so much trouble when we get home," Carlotta said in a low voice.

"Of course we are. We always get in trouble when we have the tiniest shred of fun. But tonight, I'm not going to think about what Babbo will say. If you're smart, you'll do the same. It's a rare opportunity we have here, Carlotta," she said in a whisper that the men didn't hear. "When will you ever have the chance to do this again? Don't waste it."

The quartet halted on a brightly-lit corner. Zia looked askance at Daroga.

"Now what?" she said.

"Into to the Black Cat Club with us! It's pretty popular, but the piano player knows our boy Erik, so we'll be able to squeeze in, no problem."

Carlotta clung to Erik's arm, uncomfortable in the strange neighborhood. Loud music, and the laughter and shouts of many people echoed out of the brightly-lit building into the street. They went down a flight of stairs and through a small red door into a dark corridor.

"Good evening, folks. Do you have a reservation?" a voice said.

Carlotta cringed away from the large man in the dark suit who sat guarding a green velvet curtain behind which loud music was playing. He reminded her of the men who had helped Benito commit murder.

"Good evening, I'm Erik Ballo. Raphael usually has me on the guest list when he plays."

"Oh, of course Mr. Ballo, my apologies for not recognizing you. Right this way, please," the man said with a smile as he parted the curtain.

Zia grinned at Carlotta and squeezed her hand briefly. The man led the four to a small round table near the crowded dance floor. Carlotta was overwhelmed by the dozens of flashily dressed people who jostled past; by the sight of so much alcohol flowing and so many costly cigars billowing blue smoke; by the strange music that sounded like pure noise to her ears.

"I'll get the drinks," Daroga said.

He winked at Zia, then rose and darted away into the thick of the brightly colored silk gowns and drab suits.

"Look at their skirts, Carlotta!" Zia whispered. "I've never seen ones so short — and you can see their petticoats when they kick!"

Dozens of women on the large dance floor twirled in delicate dresses that seemed more like undergarments than modest clothing. Shocking glimpses of bright petticoats and shapely calves flashed with every spin and kick. Their partners wore elegant suits and shoes so shiny and spotless that Carlotta was sure they had waited until they were inside the club to slip them on. Carlotta looked down at her own dark, woolen dress with its long skirt and handmade collar. She felt positively dowdy next to these shimmering men and women.

"Now then," Daroga said as he returned with glasses of Champaign, which he handed around. "We need a toast. Let's see …"

"_Let's drink, let's drink to this great beauty _…" Erik sang softly. Carlotta burst into giggles — it was his drinking song from _Love Songs_.

"Must be an opera joke. That's why we fools don't get it," Daroga said as he rolled his eyes at Zia and raised his glass. "I have a much better toast: To a pleasant twist in what was shaping up to be the dullest evening of my life,"

The four clinked glasses and drank. Carlotta coughed as the bubbly wine hit her throat. She was accustomed to the watered down chianti her family drank with their evening meals. This beverage was potent.

Slowly, as the four talked and toasted, Carlotta and Erik began to relax. They found that they could even touch hands without either pulling away awkwardly.

"I'm gonna dance!" Zia announced suddenly, leaping up from her chair.

"With me, I hope," Daroga said as he put down his glass and hurried after Zia.

Erik and Carlotta were alone together. Their eyes met, then both looked down.

"Shall…would you like to dance, too?" Erik ventured.

Carlotta started to shake her head, then reflected for a moment on how awful it would be to sit in awkward silence with Erik. Besides, when would she ever feel the touch of his hands again? His body against hers?

"All right. But I will look like a fool, I warn you."

"No worse than me. I may have rhythm when it comes to singing, but try telling that to my feet," he said with a smile.

Carlotta and Erik rose and joined the crowd on the dance floor. The alcohol she had consumed was beginning to make itself felt, and Carlotta threw herself into the unfamiliar dance without reservation. As her senses began to swirl, Erik spun her around and around.

"Oh my!" she laughed dizzily, stumbling against him.

His arms came up to catch her from falling, her body pressing his with a heat that made his head swim. He held her against his chest longer than he needed to, his eyes locking with hers. Carlotta smiled up at him, forgetting that he must harbor some resentment in his heart towards her, forgetting that she was never going to see him again. Without the slightest hesitation, she allowed herself to lean forward and lightly graze her lips along his cheek.

"Oh god, Carlotta," Erik breathed, "I've missed you so much."

Carlotta pressed her forehead to Erik's chest, her mind a whirlpool of emotions that seemed determined to drag her down into some inescapable depths. Her horrible job at the factory, the loss of Erik, her fear of Benito; it was all too much.

Something seemed to snap inside of Carlotta. Laughing, she spun away from Erik and began to dance with utter abandon.

She didn't care anymore! Nothing mattered, nothing!

Carlotta had not danced in public since she was a child in Italy. During carnivale season, the entire neighborhood would gather after dark to dance in the square. Round and round in great chains the men and women would dance, the children leaping and capering all around. Carlotta could almost hear the mad, ecstatic music of carnivale in the can-can tune that floated over the dance floor. She spun and spun, a beatific smile on her face.

Erik drifted away from the dance floor, a worried frown on his face. What was Carlotta doing? Was she drunk? Or just enjoying herself, his presence unnecessary?

"Hey there, Raphael," Erik said as he leaned on the scarred old piano.

"It's Erik! How you doing, my boy?"

"I'm hanging in there."

"That your girl out there?"

"Mmm," Erik grunted.

Was she still his? Had she ever really been?

"She's one gorgeous lady, no mistake," Raphael commented, not missing a note as he surveyed the dancers.

"She is."

"Better keep her away from Jean The Bull, if you want to keep her looking gorgeous."

Raphael nodded at the beefy man who was trying to dance with Carlotta.

Jean The Bull was pulling a small vial out of his pocket, his snaky smile fixed on Carlotta.

Erik rushed over to the two, his heart thumping.

"You like dancing, my dear? Just take a whiff of this, and you'll be dancing all night."

Carlotta giggled, her head thrown back, her eyes closed.

"Get the hell outta here, Jean! She's not for you."

"Yeah, yeah, Erik. Relax, I didn't know she was with you," Jean smirked, putting the vial back into his pocket as he sauntered away.

"Carlotta," Erik shook her shoulder.

Her eyes opened and she began to laugh.

"Dance with me, Erik! I want to dance myself to death!"

"Carlotta, what is the matter with you?" he exclaimed.

Her smile suddenly faded. Her dance faltered, and without warning she burst violently into tears.

Erik hesitated only for an instant, then threw his arm around her, marching her off the dance floor and out the door. Up on the sidewalk, he released her. The chilly night air seemed to startle her. She stopped crying, stood perfectly still, and let her tear-filled eyes swerve this way and that, as if utterly bewildered.

Erik gripped her shoulders firmly.

"Now, I want to know the truth. What is going on, Carlotta? Are you drunk?"

Carlotta's lips trembled. Her face crumpled and she abruptly covered her face with her hands, sobbing with the agony of a person in profound mourning. Alarmed, Erik put his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Shhh, it's all right. This is my fault. I should never have brought you here in the first place."

"No, it's not that," her throat hitched and she buried her face in his shirt. "Oh, Erik! I'm so scared."

Erik rocked her gently, his hand stroking her hair.

"Of what? You can tell me."

Carlotta didn't mean to tell. She knew that Benito might kill her for doing so. But before she knew it, she was talking and talking, her words jumbled and punctuated by rough sobs.

"Your cousin killed someone?" Erik repeated. "Carlotta, you've got to go to the police."

"No!" she shook her head, her eyes huge and streaming. "He'll kill me, too. He said, 'I want you to know what I can do.' He wanted to show me what he'll do to me if I ever make him angry."

Carlotta clung to Erik. She felt so safe in his arms. Safe enough to cry at last. Safe enough to admit to herself, and to him, how miserable she was. Her job, her family, how much she missed being with him — she could tell him anything. When she finally fell silent, Erik cupped her face in his hands and looked directly into her eyes.

"Carlotta. I love you. I know that everything's falling apart around you, but you can always count on me. I'm not going to stop loving you, no matter what."

Carlotta blinked back her final tears. At last, they were tears of joy.

"I wish I could be with you always. I wish I could see you everyday," she murmured.

A determined look came into Erik's eyes.

"If there was a way, would you be willing to try it? I mean, if I could fix it so that we could meet like we used to, would you risk your family being angry with you again?"

"Erik, I don't know —"

"They wouldn't find out, I promise. But do you care enough to take the risk?"

"Yes, of course I care enough. I can stand working that terrible job, I can stand knowing what Benito did, but only if I have you. I can't do it all alone."

"I hate to ask you to lie to your parents."

"I tried telling them the truth. If they won't allow me to do what I must, then I'll have to lie."

Even as she said this, a dirty sensation swelled within her. She was lying so much these days: lying to her parents, lying to Erik. Would she ever be able to be honest? At least she was honest with herself when she admitted that she couldn't go on without his love.

She laid her hand on his broad chest so she could feel his heart thrumming against her palm.

"How will you fix it so we can see each other?"

"Too many questions will spoil the surprise," Erik replied mysteriously.

A smile finally bloomed on Carlotta's face.

"You don't know yet, do you?"

"I've got some vague plans," Erik smiled in reply, caressing her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"Promise you'll find a way to tell me the minute it's all settled?"

"I'll sing it from the streets, my love," Erik murmured, leaning down to kiss her.

"There you two are! Needed a bit of air too, did you?" Daroga a said, bounding up the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

Zia's hand was in his. She gently disengaged it and draped Carlotta's coat over her shoulders.

"Wasn't that fun, Carlotta? I've never danced like that in my life!"

"Tell you what, kids: It's almost midnight. I've got to be back at the station in six hours. Shall we call it a night?"

"I wish we could dance until the sun comes up. But there's a fierce Babbo-monster at our home who's already angry enough to fry us, I'm sure," Zia sais as she buttoned up her coat.

"Do you want us to escort you ladies home?" Daroga offered.

"No!" Carlotta exclaimed, alarmed by the prospect of Babbo seeing the girls not only coming home hours late, but also on the arms of two strange men.

"Well, then I guess I'll just head on over to the station and crash on the couch till my shift," Daroga sighed. "Such a wonderful job I have."

Erik shoved his friend aside so he could lean down and whisper in Carlotta's ear.

"I'll find a way to see you tomorrow. Maybe only for a moment, but I _will _see you, I promise."

Carlotta tipped her face up to kiss Erik, but her aunt's voice stopped her.

"Hurry up, Carlotta!"

"Goodbye," Carlotta whispered.

Erik squeezed her shoulder gently once, then she had to turn dash up the dusky street after her aunt. He watched her until she had faded away in the hazy gaslight.

"What a night! Mad Russian gypsies, dancing with a handsome stranger, drinks at a real can-can hall … I've never done anything so exciting or daring in my life. Neither have you, signorina," Zia said, tapping Carlotta on the cheek lightly.

"No, I certainly haven't," Carlotta agreed. "I'm so happy, Zia! He isn't angry with me, he loves me."

"So, it _was_ because of Erik, all that gloom? Well, Carlotta-mia, you've got a rough road ahead of you. You'll be going head-to-head against the entire family on this one."

"Even against you?" Carlotta's eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, I'll pretend to disapprove. I have to. But I like that Mr. Ballo. He's not at all like Benito. He would make a good husband."

"What about that friend of his?" Carlotta teased.

Zia smiled slyly.

"He's a cocky one. Too sure of himself. And too exotically handsome for his own good."

"I know you, Zerlinetta — you're mad about him already."

"Mmm …"

Zia raised her eyebrows ambiguously. A silence fell between the girls.

"When we get home, what are we going to tell the family?" Carlotta inquired with a nervous catch in her voice.

"I don't know. Benito will be furious with you, Babbo will be furious with me, and it will be a colossal mess all around. I guess we'll have to play it by ear."

The tenement loomed at the end of the street. The girls walked quickly to their building, tiptoed up the stairs, and paused outside the Giallos' door.

"Just let me do the talking, niece. They'll slay you if you take the blame, since they're suspicious of you already. But they'll just scold and wail at me if they think it was all my fault … I hope."

Carlotta nodded with trepidation. It was going to be brutal.

Zia grabbed the knob and twisted it.

"All right. Here we go."

The girls were surprised when their eyes were met with utter darkness. They stood stock-still and listened. Babbo's deep snoring, at counterpoint with Nonna's dream-induced muttering, met their ears.

"Did they just get tired of waiting up for us?" whispered Carlotta.

"Shh! Don't wake them."

Zia crept through the dark room, leading Carlotta to their bedroom. Only when the door was closed did Zia let out her breath.

"Well, at least they won't know how late it was when we came in."

"Why would they go to bed? They should have been pacing the floor, planning to punish us for the rest of our days!" Carlotta whispered as she shrugged off her coat.

"I don't know. But I have a feeling that we'll be in for it tomorrow morning."

When Sunday morning dawned, Carlotta and Zia awoke with dread in their hearts.

"Say good bye to freedom, niece. They're gonna lock us both up in convents for this."

Carlotta yanked on her church clothes, glaring at her aunt.

"Why do I have to get in trouble? It was you're idea. You made me go with you!"

"Well, I certainly didn't see you rushing to the open arms of your betrothed, little miss! No, you were only too happy to stroll off with your Signore Bello —"

"Girls, hurry up! Nonna's special eggs are getting cold."

"See what you got me into?" Carlotta hissed, opening the door.

The girls approached the breakfast table meekly, their heads lowered.

"Good morning, you two. Sit, sit."

Babbo waved them to their chairs, his mouth half-full.

"Did you sleep well?" Mamma said, spooning a steaming pile of eggs onto Carlotta's plate, her eyes showing no guile.

"Yes," Carlotta replied cautiously.

"How was the show?" Babbo inquired.

Carlotta glanced at Zia. There was no double meaning in his tone, no edge of sarcasm.

"It was good. All in Russian, but good." Carlotta spoke carefully, watching her father's face through half-narrowed eyes.

"Hmf. Russians. Damned potato-grubbing peasants. If I'd known it was Russians, I don't think I'd have let you two go," Babbo grumbled, digging into his eggs.

"Did we wake you last night when we came home?" Zia inquired, keeping her face as neutral as possible.

"No, no. We went to bed early since we knew Benito would be bringing you home safe. Thank you for being so quiet, by the way."

Carlotta and Zia exchanged a relieved look.

But … why hadn't Benito raised holy hell with the family when he realized that his two charges had escaped from him?

His place at the table was unoccupied.

Where was Benito?

"So, is Benito down buying cigarettes?" Carlotta asked her mother.

Mamma shrugged.

"Maybe he had some business to take care of before church. He was up and gone before I woke up."

"That boy: working Sundays, even. He'll make a fine husband for you, Carlotta. A fine provider for his family," Babbo nodded significantly at his daughter.

"That's right, Carlotta," Zia said, leaning over as if to whisper some nuptial witticism. "When he comes back, he'll spill the beans. Then we're done for."

The Giallo family went to mass at nine. Without Benito. Mamma wore a concerned frown and Babbo muttered to himself about the embarrassment of having a family member arrive tardy at mass. But no one knew where he could be.

Carlotta sang during the mass, her voice soaring joyously at the thought that perhaps Erik was sitting unseen in the audience. Her mother smiled her approval when Carlotta returned to the Giallo pew.

"That was exceptional," she whispered.

Carlotta beamed.

"Well, where is that boy? That's what I want to know," Babbo blared as the Giallos walked home. "How late can a person be? He just doesn't bother to show up? Not even for confession?"

"Il Purgatorio aspetta por il povero giovane!" Nonna intoned ominously, shaking her head.

"_I'm_ the one in Purgatory, waiting for Benito to show up and drop the bombshell," Zia whispered to Carlotta.

Upon reaching the apartment, the Giallo women immediately changed out of their Sunday best and began to prepare the evening meal. Though barely past noon, it would take hours to make. Carlotta hummed softly to herself as she skinned and chopped the garlic.

"It's good to see you smiling, Carissima." Mamma said.

Carlotta paused in her work to plant a kiss on her mother's cheek, her eyes brighter than they'd been for days.

"_Oh, come to the window, my treasure! Oh, come transform my pain to pleasure!_" a voice drifted up from the street, singing loudly.

Mamma and Carlotta both looked up.

"That sounds like the act two solo from _Don Giovanni._ But in French. And very well sung. How strange," Mamma said with a frown.

Carlotta brought her hand to her mouth in surprise.

It was Erik!

Without a thought, she rushed to the window and pushed it up.

"_Ah, my treasure_!" Erik sang out when he saw Carlotta. "Come on down! I've got wonderful news."

"I can't, I'm cooking! Tell me," Carlotta shouted back, leaning far out of the window.

"I got you a job at the theater. Not that pitiful, no-pay, chorus-girl scam; and not down in the costume dungeon. You'll be helping the dressers backstage. Better pay than before, mia bella!"

"Oh, that's so wonderful! When do I start?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Carlotta nearly toppled out of the window. "Oh, thank you, Erik!"

"See you bright and early."

"Thank you! Till tomorrow."

Carlotta pulled herself back into the room, her face glowing.

"Daughter," said Babbo darkly from his chair. "Just who was that man?"

"Oh, Babbo! I don't have to work at that rotten factory anymore! I can go back to the opera. And it's more money, Babbo — more money," she exulted.

"I said, who was that man?" Babbo repeated, rising to his feet.

"Carlotta, answer your father!" Mamma exclaimed from the kitchen area.

"What? Oh, that was Erik. I can't believe he really got me back on at the theater."

Carlotta clapped her hands together with delight.

"That was the man you had been sneaking around to visit? That was the man I forbade you to see?"

Carlotta finally noticed her father's growing rage and her smile slipped.

"When did you see him? When did you tell him that you wanted him to find you work? Answer me, girl!"

Babbo loomed over Carlotta, his face red with anger.

"I can't work at that factory anymore, Babbo. It's killing me," she blurted.

"So instead you want to be a whore for this man your father's never even met?"

"Babbo!"

Carlotta couldn't believe what he had said. She stared, stunned, at her father.

"Babbo, please," Mamma cried, standing with Nonna beside the stove. "Carlotta's a good girl!"

"No, she's not a girl anymore — she's a woman. A woman who is to be married before the year is out. You're as good as a wife, daughter, so why are you running around with a man who's not your husband?"

"I …" Carlotta fumbled.

"Answer me!"

"I don't want to marry Benito," Carlotta burst out.

The Giallo family, as one, became very still.

"What?" Babbo whispered.

"I can't do it. I can't be his wife. I want to be a singer."

Carlotta couldn't believe she was actually saying these things, but she couldn't seem to hold them back anymore.

Babbo's face drained of color. His mouth opened. His hands balled into fists.

"Babbo!" shrieked Zia. "My God, it's Benito!"

Babbo turned to the door, just in time to see Benito stagger in, drenched in blood and covered with dark bruises.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Dear God, Benito! What happened?"

"_Che sangue! Dio, che sangue_!"

"Catch him, Babbo — he's about to fall!"

The Giallos rushed to Benito's aide. Babbo picked him up and carrying him to the girls' bedroom. He laid the semi-conscious young man on the bed and began to press on his face and chest.

"Benito? Benito, can you hear me?"

Mamma stood in the doorway, pressing her hands together, her face white.

"What can have happened, Babbo? Who could have done this to him?"

Babbo shook his head and Mamma turned away from the bedroom, a look of comprehension dawning in her eyes.

The family's dinner was abbreviated as all the members worked to revive Benito. Zia was sent out for drugs, Carlotta and Mamma tried to scrub the blood out of his clothes, and Nonna bathed the young man's cuts and bruises with an infusion of herbs and warm water.

"Who do you think beat him?" Zia whispered to Carlotta when the family had finally retired to sleep, all crowded together in the living room so that Benito might have the comfort of the apartment's only bed.

"I don't know. But …" Carlotta bit her lip.

"But what?"

"He's got enemies," she replied brusquely. She rolled over and pretended to go to sleep.

When the sun rose, Benito was still drifting in and out of consciousness, mumbling and thrashing as Nonna tried to spoon weak tea and sugar into his mouth.

"He's hurt bad. Maybe too bad for us to help him," Babbo said darkly as the Giallos sat around the breakfast table, picking half-heartedly at their food.

"Babbo! Don't say that!" Mamma exclaimed. "He'll be all right; he has to. The big lump on his head is going down, isn't it, Madre?"

"_Non lo so_," Nonna replied reluctantly.

"Well, I think it is. He doesn't need to go to a hospital and get sicker from all the diseases and filth. I'll stay home and take care of him today."

"You can't do that! We've got the Rossinis bring us their carrots today, so I'll need your help unpacking. And the Genovetti boys are going to be dropping off the week's lettuce heads. How can I deal with all that and help the customers all by myself?" Babbo protested.

"_Io resterò, mia bella. Va con Babbo_." Nonna patted her daughter's hand.

"Yes, let Nonna stay with him. And you girls, you'd better get going. You'll be late for work."

Babbo waved Zia and Carlotta off, his brow furrowed with many worries.

"He seems to have forgotten about your new job, Carlotta. You're more than lucky, you know," Zia remarked as she and Carlotta walked down the cracked sidewalk.

"For now. But what happens when he remembers?"

Zia shrugged.

"By then, maybe you'll have brought home a fat paycheck and he'll be too thrilled to scold you. I'll see you this evening. Don't get yourself fired again, niece."

Zia grinned, turning down the road that led to the factory.

Alone, Carlotta walked the familiar route to the theater, her stomach pleasantly tight with anticipation. What would her new job be? Would she see Erik? Would she be able to hear the singers like she did in the costume shop? What sort of tasks would she be expected to perform?

When Carlotta arrived, she was thrilled to learn that her new job would keep her in the wings and dressing rooms backstage, where she was to watch the performance for any costume mishaps, then make a quick repair during the moments when the performer was off-stage. She would also help the singers with several rapid costume changes that were to occur during the party scenes.

"We don't have enough singers to fill all the roles of party guests and matadors and gypsy girls, so we're having most of the performers double up and play both a guest and a gypsy or a matador. It's going to make for tight timing, getting so many people out of their hoop skirts and into bullfighter pants, I can tell you. That's why we hired you on. If you do well, we might be able to use you for _The Masked Ball_ next month. Lord, that opera's going to be a bigger mess than all of _Love Song's_ party scenes put together, and we'll need all the help we can get."

Carlotta nodded and smiled at her new supervisor, then immediately went to work organizing the racks of costumes that would be her responsibility. There were two other girls assigned to do quick changes, but they were stationed on the other side of the massive stage. Carlotta was alone in the dark backstage wing.

But not for long. At nine o'clock, the chorus arrived, eighty strong and noisy as a flock of wild birds. For the next forty-five minutes, Carlotta rushed back and forth from the large communal dressing rooms to the racks of costumes in the central part of the dark backstage area. The chorus members hollered constantly for her help in fastening their corsets, finding missing hats, locating other dressers who had promised makeup assistance. It was barely controlled chaos, but Carlotta adored it. This was the real opera — not the drudgery of the costume workshop.

When everyone had been outfitted and herded into their places on stage or in the wings, Carlotta had a moment to lean against a costume rack and take a few breaths. She almost envied the prima donna's personal dresser. She was only were responsible for one singer. But of course, she had to fix her hair, and fetch her food and drinks, and humor the unpleasant woman's fits of temper. Perhaps she was not to be envied after all.

"Quiet down, quiet everyone!" someone out in the audience shouted.

Carlotta crept as close to the stage floor as she dared, peering around a black wing so she could see the crowded set.

"All right, we're going to attempt to get through act three today, people. Let's show our conductor some respect and try not to have a fiasco like last time, agreed?"

After some rustling and coughing, the rehearsal began.

Carlotta was in heaven. For the next seven hours, she was able to watch and listen to an opera in the making. She was so close to the action, she could almost believe that she was a performer herself, waiting in the wings for her cue.

And best of all, she could watch Erik. Unseen in the dark of the wings, she was able to observe every movement of his muscular body, every nuance of his gestures, every expression on his chiseled face. His voice aroused longings deep within her, gentle yet insistent like his kiss. It was an exquisite, beautiful torture to be so close to him, yet unable to touch him … or feel his touch. At least she knew he was thinking about her as incessantly as she thought of him —at the lunch break a note came to her hands that made her smile for hours.

_Carlotta,_

_All this singing I'm doing today is worthless to me — because I'm not singing with you. I miss the tones and colors of your voice. I miss the pulsing of your song blended with mine. Will you meet me tonight? I admit, there are other things I miss … and they don't have anything to do with music._

_Erik_

The end of the rehearsal couldn't come soon enough for Carlotta. She quickly put away the costumes, tidied up the changing area and the small repair bench where she was expected to fix anything from small tears to catastrophic rips. Carlotta looked around at her small domain and sighed happily.

But where was Erik? He had neglected to tell her where to meet him tonight. Carlotta waited impatiently for ten minutes, then risked social censure and asked one of the soloists where Mr. Ballo might be.

"His dressing room, probably. Why?"

"Costume problems," Carlotta mumbled, her eyes on the floor. She hurried down the narrow corridor, squeezing past the dozens of singers who were exiting their dressing rooms.

"Erik?" she tapped on the white door with the small label reading, "J. Ballo" pasted on it.

The door opened and Erik's bright smile warmed her soul. He glanced over her shoulder, then hurriedly shut the door.

"Thank goodness! I thought you might be that she-devil of a prima donna. The conductor said she was looking for me. To shriek at me, I'm sure. Let's see — where can we go that she can't find me? And … where we can be alone?"

Carlotta grinned.

"How about prop storage? They sent me there a few times when I worked in the costume workshop. It's always deserted."

They slipped out of Erik's dressing room and hurried down into the subbasement. Carlotta opened the ancient door and peered inside.

"It looks empty," she reported.

A sly grin lit Erik's face.

"Safe from prying eyes?"

Carlotta blushed and led Erik into the dim room. Huge stacks of furniture, massive candelabras with spidery arms, strange plants made of silk, and innumerable canes, umbrellas, fans, and books lay in haphazard piles all around the room. Carlotta moved several paintings aside and sat carefully on a dusty old sofa. Erik strolled over to an enormous dragon's head and thumped it.

"What on earth could this have come from … did they do _The Magic_ _Flute_ here, or something?"

'"Erik," Carlotta inclined her head toward the empty place next to her on the couch.

Erik scuffed his shoe in the dust.

"I … I have to tell you, Carlotta. I'm not sure I can keep myself acting like a gentleman. I mean, I've really been missing you, and I …"

"Erik, I want you close to me. I want you to touch me. I've missed you more than you can ever know."

Carlotta held out her hand. Erik stepped forward and took it, still standing.

"I wish I could see you every minute of every day," he said, lightly flexing her fingers with his. "I wish we could be together without having to sneak around."

"It's complicated," Carlotta agreed.

Erik, his hands still cradling hers, knelt in the dust at her feet.

"How are your hands? Do they still hurt?"

Carlotta shook her head.

"Do they look that bad?" she asked.

"No. They're beautiful."

Erik traced the veins in the back of her hand with his thumb. He looked up into her eyes, and Carlotta's heart lurched at the pain she saw.

"Please, don't ever leave me like that again," he said softly.

"I won't. If I ever … disappear like that again, you'll know that it's against my will. And you'll find me, won't you, Erik?"

"I promise," Erik whispered.

He let go of her hand and reached up to cup the back of her head with both hands. Gently, he pulled her face down to his, her long hair hanging in a curtain over them both. Carlotta clung to him, her fingers lightly tearing at his back. Erik shivered and pressed his body in closer, his hard stomach rubbing against her knees. His hands slid up into the depths of her hair, his fingers roving through the long strands.

When he saw that Carlotta was as eager as he, Erik slowly eased her to her back. As her body hit the old cushions of the couch, a massive plume of dust hit both of them in the face.

"Aw jeez!" Erik exclaimed, before he began to sneeze uncontrollably.

Carlotta sat up, caught in a fit of coughing and giggling.

"Well," Erik wheezed, "I guess the opera-angels are trying to tell us something."

"We've offended them, I suppose?"

"Obviously," Erik grinned, brushing a bit of gray dust off the tip of Carlotta's nose. "But even if I offend all the angels of music, I'll keep adoring you for the rest of my life. I love you, Carlotta."

Carlotta felt as though she were melting inside. Her heart, her mind felt soft and fluid, as if in a dream. She reached a hand up to stroke Erik's cheek.

"I love you," she replied. "I've never loved anyone before you, and there will never be anyone else for me."

Erik walked Carlotta home through the nearly empty streets, dreading the separation from her as much as the visit he would have to make to his mother.

"Here we are," she said softly.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Erik lightly ran his fingers through a lock of her hair.

"Of course. But we'll find someplace less dusty than the prop shop."

Erik grinned.

"Addio, Giallo. I won't kiss you in case your cousin's lurking about."

"Addio, Bello. I mean, _Ballo_," Carlotta giggled, darting up the stairs.

Carlotta jogged up the three flights, her heart light and joyous. As she hit the final landing, she heard someone hiss her name.

"Carlotta! Come here for a moment."

Zia beckoned Carlotta into the shadows outside the Franconetti family's door. Her face was grim.

"Zia, what are you doing?"

"Here's the thing: Benito's awake, but he doesn't know we left him that night. He got jumped by some men before the show was over. I pried that much out of him, but it was like yanking teeth from a rabid dog's mouth, believe me. The other thing is, Babbo knows you're new job is back at the opera and he's none too pleased. But I managed to talk him down a bit, so just make sure you let him think that you never see Erik in the job you do. Tell him you work only with women, or something."

"All right. Anything else I should know?"

"Benito's going to be all right, but he's in a rotten mood. Be careful around him."

Carlotta and Zia walked down the hall to the Giallo apartment together.

"I saw Erik today," Carlotta whispered.

"I bet you did," Zia grinned. "But I got spicier news for you, niece: I saw Daroga."

"You didn't!"

"I certainly did. But you'll have to wait to hear about _that_," Zia whispered as she opened the door.

"Carlotta, just in time; I need help with the soup," her mother said with a smile.

"_Ah, la fanculla è in ritardo, ma non è abbastanza per fuggie la zuppa _!" Nonna cackled as she peeled the potatoes.

"Good evening, Babbo," Carlotta said cautiously, giving him a light peck on the cheek.

"Mmf," he grunted, shaking his newspaper straight. "Your cousin's feeling better."

"Yes, Zia said he's almost up and about."

"Good news for us all, isn't it, Carlotta?" Mamma beamed at her family through the steam of the hot soup she was stirring.

"Yes, it is," Carlotta agreed as she reached for an apron.

Babbo lowered his newspaper and stared at his daughter, his eyes hard.

"Why don't you go tell him that yourself?"

Carlotta knew that her father was testing her. He had not mentioned her change of jobs, he had not asked if she had been tarrying with Erik this evening, but he required her to show the proper concern for the man who was nearly her husband. She sensed that if she hesitated in any way, or showed the slightest distaste, he would attack with every bit of ammunition that her recent behavior had furnished him.

"All right."

Carlotta draped her apron across the kitchen table and smoothed her lace collar. She walked to her bedroom door, feeling her father's eyes on her, and tapped lightly.

"Benito? May I come in?"

She got no response, but decided the best course of action was to simply enter and get it over with. She turned the knob and tiptoed into the dark room.

"Shut the door," Benito's low voice rumbled from her bed.

Carlotta swallowed and closed the door behind her. She stood rooted to the floor, her hands clasped together in front of her stomach.

"So, you finally got home from work, huh?"

"Yes."

He ran his tongue over his swollen lips.

"How was … _work_?"

"It was fine."

"I know that songbird of yours works at the opera. I know you got him to find you a new job there. So you can be near him."

Carlotta's tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. Her palms began to sweat. Who had told him? Babbo? Mamma?

"Come closer. I can't see you too well."

Carlotta inched nearer to the bed. Benito beckoned imperatively until her knees bumped against the mattress. She let out a small yelp when his strong hand seized her wrist.

"You aren't gonna see him. As soon as I'm out of this bed, I'm going to be waiting right outside of that work of yours every night. I'm gonna take you home … gonna hold your hand the whole way," Benito shifted his grip to her hand, squeezing it painfully. "Maybe we'll take our sweet time getting home, just like you've done with your songbird. Maybe I'll do what he does to you. You'll tell me all about it, won't you? The way he touches you, how you touch him back —"

"Benito! You're hurting me!" Carlotta cried.

Benito released her hand, his eyes seeming like small fires in the dark room.

"This'll be our bed soon, mia bella," he murmured. "You think about that when I'm better and you're sleeping here all lonely. Soon I'll be with you when you sleep."

Carlotta could take no more. She turned, her stomach roiling with nausea, and darted out of the bedroom.

"How's he feeling?" Babbo inquired.

Carlotta summoned up all her strength, drew upon all the dramatic acting she had seen on stage throughout the day, and plastered a bright smile on her face.

"He's better. Almost ready to get up. Isn't it wonderful?"

The week that followed was one of the happiest of Carlotta's life. She saw Erik every night, Babbo forbade Benito to stir from the apartment until all of his injuries had healed, and her work at the opera fed her love of music.

Humming to herself one evening during the first week of dress rehearsals, she strode down the basement hall and entered the singers' studio. She was a bit early, so she sat down at the piano and studied the keys with a baffled frown. Mamma had played the piano when she was a professional singer in her youth. Maybe Carlotta could ask her tonight why some keys were black and some were white. She was afraid to touch them — she might break something. The door opened and a smile immediately came to her lips.

"Good evening, pretty girl," Erik called out as he took off his coat and tossed it over a chair. "Did you hear what that soprano from hell called me today? I think the entire building heard it, considering how loudly she screamed."

Carlotta laughed and ran her finger over the keys of the piano.

"I heard her, but what is a 'ratoncito?' Is that a French word?"

"No, that one comes from the exotic city of Seville and thereabouts," Erik said as he slid onto the bench beside Carlotta. "It means a little rat-like creature."

Carlotta giggled before she could stop herself. Erik made a face at her.

"Sorry," she said. "What shall we sing tonight? Maybe_ The Barber of Seville?_ Or _The Marriage of Figaro_?"

Erik shook his head.

"My voice is just about shot. I've been singing nine hours straight for the past four days, and that shouting match I got into with Juliette hasn't helped. Neither has spending my after-dinner hours cajoling my mother into giving me another week before I move home. Soon she's going to notice that this 'week' I need to settle things never seems to end, and then I will be in serious trouble."

"Poor Erik," Carlotta murmured as she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

He sighed and leaned his head against Carlotta's shoulder.

"Will you sing to me? Something quiet, something beautiful."

Carlotta hesitated. She knew the perfect song. But would he really want to hear it? It was from _Love Songs_, after all. Juliette may not have sung a note in rehearsal yet, but that didn't mean that Erik wanted to hear one of her most important arias right now.

Carlotta decided to risk it. She sat back from the keyboard and began to sing softly.

"_Farewell to the past, to happiness and days of joy _…"

When Erik didn't protest or stiffen in annoyance, she continued. It was the same song she had performed for the managers during the unexpected audition Erik had arranged weeks ago. She sang the tragic farewell to life as gently and quietly as a lullaby

"God, Carlotta, you _must_ become a professional singer!" Erik breathed when she had finished. "Sing something else for me — something from _Love Songs_."

Carlotta closed her eyes, remembering that night on the stage when she had thought that she was alone. The night when Erik had emerged from the shadows to kiss her and change her life. Carlotta opened her mouth and sang,

"_Ah, perhaps he is the one my lonely soul desires…would summon up in a dream!_"

She felt Erik's hands creep around her waist. Carlotta's song stopped in a breathless gasp.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quickly.

Carlotta shook her head and leaned against his muscular chest, reveling in the new and strange sensations his touch was awakening within her. Erik pressed his mouth to hers, then all at once he froze.

He forced himself to take his hands and lips off of her.

"Carlotta. We have to stop."

Her head swimming, Carlotta opened her eyes and gazed at his pained face.

"What's wrong?"

Erik took a shaky step away from her, his hands trembling.

"We can't do this — I can't."

"Why?" Carlotta look up at him, dazed.

"Because I love you, but I can't marry you. I can never marry you." Erik raked his fingers through his fair hair and turned his head away. "My mother … I have responsibilities to her and … I just can't marry you."

"What does that matter? I can't marry you, either," Carlotta blurted out, before she thought the better of it.

Erik turned slowly to face her.

"What do you mean?"

"I …" Carlotta bit her lip. "I'm not a free woman. I'm supposed to …"

"Yes?"

Erik's arms were crossed over his bare chest, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm supposed to marry someone else. This year."

Erik turned away from her and took a faltering step toward the piano. He was silent for too long.

"Who?" he said at last.

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I've never wanted —"

"Who is he?"

Carlotta's heart sank.

"Benito. My cousin," she whispered.

Erik let out a dry, mirthless laugh.

"So I guess I really _did_ see you with your lover that time in the park."

Carlotta felt tears threatening.

"It's not like that, Erik! I don't love him. I've never loved him. And he doesn't love me, not really. Please, Erik, look at me! I can't talk to your back."

Erik shook his head, his back still to her.

"Why did you do this to me? Why did you play with my heart like this? I fell in love with you —"

"And I love you too, Erik!"

"Please! Don't. Just … I don't think I can be with you right now."

Erik grabbed his coat and made for the door.

"Erik! Don't leave — I need to talk to you about this, I need —"

The door slammed shut behind him. Carlotta wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling humiliated and guilty. Was this all her fault? Should she have told him from the outset that her heart might forever belong to him, but her body never could?

Of course she should have, but would it have done any good? Would she have felt one kiss from him, one tender touch if he had known all along that she was promised to another?

Carlotta lowered her face into the palms of her hands and began to cry.

"Why so quiet, Carlotta-mia? Was work too hard today?" Mamma patted Carlotta's arm gently.

"Yes, I suppose it was," Carlotta replied as she stirred the bubbling pot of pasta. "It's not bad work — I like it a lot. Just a lot of running around and finding things. You know, responsibilities."

Mamma nodded.

"Well, I'm sure you're doing very well."

Carlotta sighed, rubbing the back of her neck wearily.

All at once, from out in the hall, they could hear someone shouting.

"Whore! You wanna make a disgrace of us all with your slut's dress and your slut's kissing?"

"You let go of me right now, or I'll smack you upside the head so hard you'll die this time, little boy!"

"Babbo, who on earth is that?" Mamma exclaimed.

Babbo rose from his chair and crossed to the door, his face puzzled.

"I don't know. Are the Buscanelli kids back with their parents?"

"I pazzi, lo so!" Nonna muttered nervously.

Babbo threw open the door and let out a shocked gasp.

"Benito! What are you doing?"

Benito pushed past Babbo, dragging Zia by the upper arm.

"Babbo, you'll wanna hear this. I found her out front of the building in the arms of some uomo senza onore Persian. The whore was kissing him!"

Zia threw Benito's hand off violently, catching him hard across the chin with the back of her hand.

"You keep your damned hands off of me, nephew! I am not Carlotta —not your woman to order around and manhandle. I am your aunt, and you will show me proper respect," she screamed, her face red with rage.

"Zia! Benito! Quiet, both of you!" Babbo stared at both, baffled.

"And you, brother," Zia rounded on Babbo, eyes streaming with angry tears. "How dare you let this bastardo ragazzo behave like this? He made a fool of me, nearly got himself into another fight —"

Benito snorted.

"Her Persian said he was a cop, but I don't care. I won't have any woman in my family playing whore to some brown-skinned camel rider —"

Zia slapped Benito again, her face livid.

Benito raised his hand to retaliate.

Babbo leapt forward and grabbed the young man's wrist.

"Benito! Don't! Zerlina, what on earth is the matter with you? Is it true, what Benito says?"

"Of course it's true! I _am_ a whore, I _am_ awful. I'm the old maid burden of this family, and I hate you," Zia shrieked, running to the bedroom she shared with Carlotta.

The door slammed, leaving the family in stunned silence.

"Dio in cielo!" Babbo murmured, releasing Benito's wrist.

Mamma glanced in confusion from Benito to Nonna.

"That was terrible … what's come over her?"

"She's a whore, and she's been caught. Don't blame the messenger," Benito moved to the kitchen table and sat.

"Someone will have to go reason with her. We can't live in such strife. Carlotta," Babbo rounded upon his daughter. "You do it."

"Me?" Carlotta squawked. "Why do I have to do it? She doesn't listen to me."

"She loves you best. You're the sister she never had."

"She does have a sister — two, in fact. Zia Maria back in Milan and Zia Elvira in Rome. Anyway, it's you she loves best," Carlotta informed her father, who was beginning to sweat.

"You're the only sister she's ever _known_. Elvira and Maria were long married and out of our parents' home before our little Zerlina was born. Besides … she won't hit you."

Carlotta almost smiled. Her big, powerful Babbo, who was scared of no man, was frightened of his baby sister?

"All right, Babbo, I'll go talk to her. But don't expect a miracle."

Babbo sat down in his chair and began to gnaw on his thumbnail.

"Dio, dio, che tempesta!" he sighed.

"Zia?" Carlotta said as she tapped on the door to their bedroom. "I'm coming in."

The reply on the other side of the door was muffled.

"I don't care."

Carlotta entered and gently closed the door behind her. Her young aunt lay sprawled across the bed, her head wedged under a pillow.

"Zia? Zerlina? You should see Babbo cowering out there. He's afraid you'll start beating him next," Carlotta giggled.

Her aunt didn't respond. Carlotta laid her hand on Zia's back.

"Please, Zia, tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

"You can't help. No one can help."

Zia pulled the pillow off her head and gazed up at Carlotta with streaming eyes.

"I'm sick to death of being in this family. I'm sick of being the spinster aunt. I can't live like this anymore, Carlotta. I'll die — I mean it."

Carlotta didn't know what to say. She patted Zia's hair helplessly.

"Oh, Zia. I understand a little, I think. But …"

"You do understand, I know it. You're sick of this family, too."

"No, I love everyone —" Carlotta protested.

"So do I. But you don't want to play your assigned role anymore. You don't want to be the meek, beaten-down wife of Benito who pops out a new baby every year. You want to escape like I do. And for the first time, finally, finally I've found someone who I care about. Someone who likes me for who I really am. Maybe it won't end in marriage. But it makes me happy. He makes me happy. Can you understand?"

"Of course I do, Zia. Of course."

Carlotta held out her arms. Zia dove into them. Carlotta smoothed her aunt's tangled hair.

"But you mustn't scream at people. Everyone's all upset."

"I don't care. I'm through playing the timid, traditional Italian girl. From now on, I'm going to be a modern Frenchwoman. Just you wait and see. I will be my own woman."

Carlotta rocked her aunt, her own heart throbbing with the same desire. But did she have the courage to take action?


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Pay attention, people! We're coming right up on opening night, as I'm sure you all know, and your performances absolutely stink, as all of us out in the house know. I want it sharp today: Everything precise, from your movements, to your soggy diction, to the pitch on each and every note. Sharp, people! Especially you, Erik."

Erik rubbed his forehead, feeling irritable and weary. He detested the blooming trousers and excessively tight vest that the costume designer had put him in. He hated the scratchy false sideburns the director insisted he glue to his face. And he hated going into dress rehearsal with no leading lady on stage. Enough was enough — why didn't Juliette have to rehearse? How on earth was she getting away with it?

On top of everything, he had to keep making a concerted effort not to look into the stage right wings. That was where Carlotta was. That was where his weakness was.

He knew that if he looked, he might forget his righteous indignation and rush over to forgive her and beg forgiveness for himself.

But he had his pride … and she had hurt him deeply. He had no intention of becoming one of those weak men who let every woman they loved use them for a punching bag. He was already going down that road with his mother. He didn't need to trail along after a married woman. He deserved a woman who could commit fully to him … and yet, he didn't deserve such a woman at all. He had his mother to take care of. How could share his life with a wife if his first priority was always his mother?

"Erik! I said, starting from the drinking song!"

"Oh, sorry. Cue from just before '_Listen to the toast_,' please, Maestro."

Carlotta should have been enjoying herself immensely. After all, she was backstage at the first full dress rehearsal of _Love Songs_. The entire orchestra, including the aged conductor, had assembled for the first time out in the pit. Erik was mere feet from her, looking old fashioned yet intensely attractive in his courtly eighteenth century costume. And it was Erik who was keeping her from feeling truly happy.

Why hadn't she told him about Benito from the start? Why had she strung him along, hurting herself and him in the process?

"Awful! Stop, stop Marcel! You, playing Alfred: you're singing a drinking song, not a hymn. Put little more life in it!

Carlotta saw Erik glare darkly at Juliette, who was sitting in the audience with the designers and managers. Erik lifted his prop glass of wine and nodded to the conductor. The orchestra began the song again.

"_Let's drink, let's _—"

"What did I just say? Did I say to sing it like a hymn? No, I did not! Now do as you're told, boy!"

Carlotta winced, recognizing how enraged Erik was becoming. Her supervisor, standing at Carlotta's elbow, seemed to realize the same thing.

"Miss Giallo, go out and tell Juliette about that quick-change we've got for her in act one. It's no big deal: her wigs get switched and a robe goes over the party dress. I just think we need to do it _now_."

Carlotta nodded, though she was loath to face the formidable prima donna. The last time, she had lost her temper and her job. She would just have to keep a tight leash on her emotions … and hope that Juliette didn't recognize her.

Carlotta exited through the inconspicuous little door beside the orchestra pit and walked quickly up the red-carpeted center aisle.

"Are you trying to ruin this production, boy? Because you're doing a marvelous job of it!" Juliette was calling from her seat.

A small, hairy dog was curled up in her lap, its bright black eyes fixed on a bag of treats in the next seat. When it saw Carlotta, it burst into angry yaps.

"Shh, shh, Muffin! Yes? What do you want?" Juliette demanded, her eyes showing no sign of recognition.

"I'm one of the backstage costume girls, Madame. I was told to explain the Act One quick-change to you —"

"Can't you see that I'm watching the rehearsal? Are you utterly blind?"

A sharp reply jumped to Carlotta's tongue, but she bit it back. She glanced up at the stage, and saw that Erik was halfway through his song, mercifully uninterrupted. She could bear Juliette for him. If it would help him, then she was willing to hold herself in check.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but my supervisor told me to do it now."

"Pish-posh! Do you think I've never done a quick-change before, girl? I have hundreds upon hundreds — once in at the Grand Imperial Theater in St. Petersburg, they had me change from full gilded body armor to a furry bear costume in under sixty seconds for a god-awful production of_ In_ _Fairy Land_. Do you think I can't handle some mediocre costumer's quick-change in this third-rate theater?"

"I …" Carlotta hesitated, saw that Erik was nearly done, and plowed on. "I'm just doing my job. If you don't want to run through it with me, then I suppose you don't have to."

"Of course I don't have to!"

"Although," Carlotta tried to stop her words, but they seemed to leap out of her mouth like wild stags. "You ought to be up on stage with the rest of the singers."

Juliette's eyes narrowed.

"You … I know you. You're that hoity-toity little Italian piece I ordered to be fired."

Carlotta's heart began to pound. She'd done it again. Babbo would kill her.

"Yes, I am," she admitted. "And I _was_ fired, but I got a new job here."

Juliette opened her mouth to reply.

"Juliette!" Erik yelled from the stage. "I really need you up here. I can't do this drinking song alone. It's a duet, for God's sake!"

"No, no, you'll figure it out on your own, boy. Keep going," Juliette replied airly, flapping a bejeweled hand at Erik.

"Jean-Paul! I've really had it!"

"Now, Erik, take it easy! We can take a short break, if you'd like —"

"No, I want to get through this damned scene without any more of her interruptions, without singing around her passages, and with a live body up here!"

"Erik, I think we need to step aside and talk quietly —"

"Carlotta! Come up here," Erik hollered.

Carlotta blanched in surprise. She glanced at Juliette, then at the managers who were staring at Erik.

"Come on, Erik, don't make this difficult!"

"I need another voice when I'm doing a duet. Call me stupid, but I do. I keep missing the timing. Please, Carlotta…" Erik beckoned impatiently.

Carlotta could barely feel her legs as she approached the huge stage. Everyone was staring at her, everyone was silent.

"Erik, if you really want a singer, we can let Madeline stand in for Juliette —"

"Maestro, from '_Let's drink, let's drink to this great beauty_,' please. Jean-Paul, just let me do this," Erik shouted, taking Carlotta's hand.

Carlotta began to shake all over. Why hadn't they stopped this? Why were they letting her sing?

His hand was not tender, nor were his eyes when he turned to her.

"Sing it, Carlotta," he whispered in her ear.

Erik's face was set and cold. Carlotta swallowed nervously and turned to face the audience.

The conductor shrugged and motioned to the orchestra to begin. Carlotta had never sung with more than one instrument before. For one terrifying moment, she couldn't recognize the music, couldn't remember how her part of the duet went. But Erik's hand was strong around hers, and his voice rang out clearly with its familiar, heart-stopping tones.

Carlotta closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"_With you, with you I'll drink this wine _…"

The jolly drinking song brought a smile to her lips as it always did, and without realizing it, she began to sway slightly to the rhythm of the violins. Behind her, the chorus hesitantly chimed in. She and Erik joined their voices, and, as the chorus swelled around them, Carlotta let the final, ringing high note soar above all the voices in the chorus and instruments in the orchestra.

Silence fell. Carlotta allowed her gaze to drift out into the audience. The managers looked stunned, their eyes riveted upon the stage. Juliette slowly rose to her feet and pointed a claw-like finger at Carlotta.

"You!" she thundered. "My dressing room, now."

Erik's heart sank as he watched Carlotta trudge off stage in the wake of Juliette's massive blue skirt. What had he done? Why had he insisted on singing with her? Her job was as good as gone. Her family would be furious with her. And it was all his fault.

Juliette squinted like a snake at Carlott as she settled her bulk into a chair close to her huge makeup mirror.

"The managers told that an untrained Italian girl auditioned for them several weeks ago. What gall."

Carlotta squirmed and knotted her fingers together, terrified and unexpectedly annoyed at the same time.

"I order you fired, and, like a bad penny, you turn up again. What insolence."

Carlotta looked into Juliette's pebble-grey eyes. If she was going to be fired, then she was going to be fired. There was nothing she could do to help herself. She refused to be intimidated by this arrogant, troublesome woman.

"And now," Juliette let out a rough, angry laugh. "You appear onstage with the entire company, singing my role, trying to usurp me in front of the entire world."

Juliette's lips twisted up into a harsh smile. Carlotta met her eyes without blinking.

"Perhaps … perhaps you _do_ have what it takes to make it in this business, after all."

Carlotta let out a derisive bark of laughter that was answered by Juliette's lap dog.

Juliette raised one eyebrow.

"You think I'm mocking you? I promise, I am not," she paused and twitched a fold of her dress smooth. "Occasionally, _very_ rarely, I have felt motivated to take on a protégée. A singer who shows a spark of promise. Maybe it will be you this time."

Carlotta couldn't contain the smirk which spread across her face. What kind of fool did Juliette think she was?

"You see, I have accumulated a great deal of knowledge during my years as a professional singer. You think I'm just lazy or arrogant, since I don't rehearse with the company. The truth is, I no longer need to rehearse."

"Everyone needs to rehearse," Carlotta countered.

"Ah, I didn't say that I no longer need to practice — I most certainly do. Every singer does. But rehearsal — plodding through the same dull stage directions, the same conventional gestures, the same tedious ego-clashes with the conductor and the director … and always, always the leading man. These things I no longer need. I practice my role at home and I attend rehearsal to study the other performers. Once I know what they plan to do, I incorporate it into my practice sessions. Simple! Do you have any idea how many times I have played Vivianne in _Love Songs_?"

Carlotta shook her head.

"Dozens. Think about that, my girl. Not two or three times, not ten or twenty, but dozens upon dozens. I have worn scores of ball gowns, given hundreds of flowers to Alfred, died dramatically in a swell of music more times than I can count. But you think you know the role better than I do — I can see it in your eyes. You think that because you're young, pretty, maybe in love … yes, your eyes say that you think you understand Vivianne very well."

"And I suppose you think that you could teach me how wrong I am, is that it?" Carlotta replied.

Juliette laughed.

"The girl is quick! So … do you want a share of my knowledge?"

Was Juliette trying to trick her? Could this offer really be genuine?

"Maybe," Carlotta answered suspiciously.

"I won't require a fee or payment of any kind. And you won't lose your job — unless you ever pull a stunt like you just did. All you must do is promise to attend every practice session I schedule for you, and do exactly as I say without questioning me."

"Why?" Carlotta demanded.

Juliette's thin lips twisted up into an unpleasant smile.

"You will see. And that is the last question I will allow."

Erik was painfully peeling the sideburns off his cheeks when he heard a light tap on his dressing room door.

"Come in," he bleated, wincing as the glue slowly gave way under his fingers.

Carlotta entered, her hands crossed stiffly over the skirt of her dress.

"Hello," she said softly. "I wanted to let you know … that I can't meet you tonight."

Erik set the L-shaped piece of false hair on the tabletop.

"Fine."

"I …" Carlotta looked down at the floor, at a loss for words.

Erik reached up and began to loosen the other sideburn with his fingertips, wincing.

"It's for the best, Carlotta."

"Have … have a good evening, then," she murmured.

"You too," Erik replied brusquely, yanking hard at the uncooperative sideburn.

Carlotta walked out of the dressing room, tears stinging her eyes. So it really was all over. He no longer cared for her. Maybe he even hated her. Well, she wasn't going to chase him. She wasn't going to try to force him or trick him into loving her again. Still, his coldness was like a knife wound to her heart.

Carlotta blinked back her tears. If she was going to meet with Juliette, she needed all her strength. If the prima donna saw that she had been crying, doubt she would mock Carlotta endlessly. Taking a deep breath, Carlotta straightened her spine and raised her head. She detested the diva, but she had knowledge and experience, and if she was willing to give it away, Carlotta would take it. Now that Erik was lost to her, she had only one love to cherish, and it was singing.

"Well, now, don't you look pathetic!" Daroga scoffed when Erik plodded home that evening. "What happened — some cat swallow you, then cough you up?"

Erik shot a dark glare at his friend as he kicked his shoes off.

"I can't live. It's too hard," he groaned, sinking into the nearest comfortable chair and covering his face with his hands. "I've got a rotten job, I've got no woman, and I'm going to have to move back in with my mother before the week's out. There is no light at the end of this tunnel."

"My, my, Ballo, why don't you say something depressing now?" Daroga fished around under Erik's chair for his cravat.

"It's all over for me. I'm going to have to quit singing, invest my meager savings to live off, and spend the rest of my miserable life trying to keep my mother from setting us both on fire."

Daroga shook the dust off his tie and moved to the bathroom so he could put it on.

"You're an idiot, Erik, you know that?"

"Oh, what do you know?" Erik snapped, lowering his hands. "You've got a good job, you've got a girl, you've got no parents to bother you!"

"Oh indeed, Erik, I've got a great job. I get to dodge knives and fists on a daily basis by murderers and madmen. And I've got no parents to bother me because they're both dead. And sure, I got a girl, but I never get to see her. I had to tell the Commander that I thought I might have the typhoid, just so I could get a night off to be with her. He's going skin me alive at work tomorrow, and I'll be stuck on the graveyard shift for the rest of my life. You're right, Erik — my life's perfect."

Erik sighed.

"I'm sorry. I'm just so damned miserable."

"Look, Erik, I'm not going to stay around here and humor you tonight. I've got to meet Zia in fifteen minutes. Why don't you crawl out of your pity-pit and come with? We'll get Carlotta to come along, and —"

Erik moaned loudly and covered his face again.

Ian gave his hair a quick brush, then re-entered the living room.

"So she's engaged — big deal. She's a lovely girl, and lots of fun, so why not accept what she can give and be happy with it? You know what I've learned over the years? Never demand more than anyone's willing to give. That's not pessimism, Erik: that's realism. Quit sulking and moaning and take a realistic look at your life and I really believe that you'll —"

Erik rolled over on the arm of the chair, his hands over his ears.

"Just leave me alone! Quit talking to me!"

"Child," Daroga muttered. "Have a good evening, Erik. I know I will."

Ian shut the door, leaving Erik alone in their apartment.

"Again! Have you no flexibility in your range whatsoever? It's a jump from A up to E flat. Not a slide — a jump. Like this …"

Juliette let out a sparkling scale that made Carlotta's eyes widen. So Juliette really could sing beautifully, in spite of the shrillness of her speaking voice!

"Now, you try it. And don't just mimic me."

Carlotta took a step away from the piano that dominated Juliette's dressing room and inhaled sharply. Immediately, Juliette held up her hand.

"Stop! What did I tell you about that? We inhale deeply and fully, but lightly. Never suck your breath in like some Sicilian peasant lugging a sow to market."

Carlotta bit back a sharp retort, inhaled evenly, and began to sing.

"_Farewell to the past, to —"_

Juliette abruptly stopped playing the accompaniment and frowned at Carlotta.

"Do you think this is a can-can dancehall? Do you think the members of your audience are doing to be fooled by your clumsy vocal tricks? The word is not sung, 'Fare-weh-EL.' You are being lazy. Instead of altering your volume, you're pumping the vowels. Horrible form — horrible."

Carlotta started to lower her head, her habitual position when being reprimanded. Then, narrowing her eyes, she raised her head to face Juliette. A cunning smile came to Juliette's face.

"Continue," she commanded.

"_Farewell to the past, to happiness and days of joy _…"

"Good!"

"_The roses have faded —"_

"No! Your pianissimo on the 'joy' was excellent, but now you're bleating like a sheared sheep. Focus."

"My mother never carried on at me like this when she was teaching me to sing," Carlotta remarked

"And now you have many, many bad habits. Now, again from '_Farewell _…'"

Night had fallen hard when Carlotta finally left Juliette's dressing room. She looked fearfully over her shoulder for Benito, but it seemed he was still obeying Babbo's edict that he should stay in the apartment until all his bruises had faded. However, he had looked perfectly fine to Carlotta that morning at breakfast, so there was no telling when he would resume his watch over her.

Carlotta sighed, her throat aching slightly. Juliette was an insufferable, insulting shrew, but she knew more about singing than anyone Carlotta had ever met. More than Mamma, more than Erik, even.

Carlotta had to forcibly push Erik from her thoughts. It was no good, letting his face, his name, his very scent dance through her mind. The pain it caused her to know she would never be with him again was unbearable. Only by not thinking of him could she stand his loss.

"Daughter. Where were you?" Babbo's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. She looked up to see him standing in front of the tenement building.

"Work. Did I miss dinner, Babbo? What time is it?" Carlotta brushed past her father to climb the steps.

"Almost nine," Babbo rumbled from behind her. "I was on my way to come find you."

"Really?" Carlotta laughed sharply. "Why didn't you send Benito? He'd love to come after me and scold me, I'm sure!"

She reached for the doorknob. Babbo gently grabbed her hand.

"Daughter, tell me the truth: Were you with that man?"

"Man?"

"That singer. The one I forbade you to see. Tell me, please. I won't scold, but I warn you that I can't stand a lie right now."

Irrational irritation welled up inside of Carlotta. Her father's very gentleness and willingness to hear a painful truth somehow melded with all of Juliette's sniping and made Carlotta want to lash out.

"Do I look like I was out amusing myself with a man, Babbo?" she snapped, yanking the door open and stepping inside the apartment.

"Ah, Carlotta, we were worried."

"Tu sarai una ragazza senza —"

"Daughter, come here," Babbo said in a low, terrible voice.

Standing at the stove, Carlotta peered into a nearly empty pot of soup and didn't turn to face him.

"I'm hungry, Babbo, and I'm tired. I don't have the energy to be scolded right now. It's not disrespect."

She picked up a bowl and began to dish the lukewarm remnants of the family meal onto it.

"Carlotta!" Babbo shouted.

Instinctively, Carlotta flinched and turned to him.

"You may be a grown woman, but I will not have you speak to me like —"

"Like what? Like a grown woman speaking to her father? I'm not being rude; I'm just not going to behave like a child around you, Babbo, simply because you're angry. I'm hungry, and I'm tired," Carlotta said wearily, setting her plate on the table.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Babbo take a step toward her. Mamma jumped in his path.

"Babbo, don't be upset with her! Just look at those dark circles under her eyes. Look at her pale face. When I was in the opera, sometimes the dressers got no lunch breaks, no dinner breaks. She's just worn out and hungry and cross, Babbo."

Babbo sat down at the other end of the table, his gaze fixed upon his wife and daughter. The apartment was uncomfortably silent, but Carlotta didn't notice. She ate and ate, her eyes growing heavy.

"Did Zia already go to bed?" she yawned.

"Zia did not come home from work today. She left this with the guard at her factory job," Babbo growled.

He hurled a wadded-up scrap of paper at his daughter. Carlotta carefully unfolded it and read.

_Dear family,_

_Don't worry, I'm not kidnapped. I'm meeting a friend for dinner. Don't try to look for us: we won't be in the neighborhood._

_Zerlina_

"Hm," Carlotta murmured and raised her eyebrows. "Well, she's not dead. So I think I'll go to bed."

Carlotta fell into bed without undressing and immediately drifted off. Her sleep was soon shattered, however, by the sound of many voices screaming in anger.

"Just now you come home? You are out all night, you are with a man. Benito's right, you are a whore!"

"How dare you? If I were a man coming home at this hour, no one would —"

"If you were a man, I'd beat you black and blue, Zerlina Giallo!"

"Oh, yes, how manly that would be! How like the good Italian head of the household. Beat the family into good behavior."

"Zia, Zia, please don't quarrel with Babbo!"

"I've never laid a finger on any member of my family in all my life. Though I've wanted to slap your insolent mouth enough times."

"Ai, che famiglia! Che mala famiglia!"

Carlotta groaned and stuffed her head under her pillow. She'd had enough of these family dramas. She just wanted a good night's sleep and a good day's work at the theater. Was that too much to ask?

"I won't be dominated by you anymore, brother! This is Paris. I can work, I can spend my money as I wish, and I can see any man I want at any time of the day or night!"

"Not if you care to live under my roof, girl!"

"Please, please, Babbo — Zia —"

"What makes it _your_ roof, Babbo? We all work; your income's about the same as each of ours. It's just as much my roof as it is yours."

Carlotta rose and threw open the bedroom door. She had no time for this nonsense. The second dress rehearsal was tomorrow — no, today, judging from the clock — and Juliette would expect her promptly at five in the evening. She hated to imagine the smug insults she'd have to endure from the diva if she were to arrive a minute late.

"I think this bagascia needs a good lesson from your hand, Babbo."

Carlotta shuddered reflexively at Benito's low voice, but stepped out of her bedroom anyway.

"Nephew, I warned you once before that you are never to speak to me with disrespect! Never," Zia barked.

"I am a man, and it's you who'd better show the proper respect!"

Carlotta pushed past her bickering family members and grabbed a day-old hunk of bread. She poured a bit of wine from last night and stood leaning against the kitchen counter dipping the bread in the wine to soften it.

"Io volgio morire! Non volgio vivere in una famiglia come questa!"

Mamma rushed to comfort Nonna, who was weeping in Babbo's favorite chair.

"Oh, Madre, don't say that! See what you've done — shame on you all!"

Carlotta chewed the stale bread and watched her family disinterestedly. It was just too much trouble to fight and quarrel. She had too many things to do.

"Why don't you just throw me out in the street, Babbo? Why do you keep your useless, burdensome sister around if she's so much trouble?"

"Throw you out to whore yourself openly on our street corner? Throw you out so you can live in sin with any man who will keep you? The disgrace —"

"Disgrace! That's all you care about? How it would look to the neighbors?"

"That's all you've been lately, Zia. A disgrace."

"You keep out of this, Benito!"

Carlotta swallowed the last of her bread and picked up her coat. She might as well head off to work early. She could practice her scales before anyone was around. Juliette would surely approve.

"I think you've all gone quite insane," she commented as she exited the apartment.

Juliette smiled coldly at Carlotta that evening, cracking her knuckles and running her fingers up and down the keyboard nonchalantly.

"You may have noticed that your voice is somewhat ragged today. That is a sign of your bad habits of breathing, articulation, and intonation of which I spoke yesterday. It will be some days before your singing feels smooth again. But we will not be lax: we will press on in spite of your ugly sounds."

"'Ugly sounds,'" Carlotta scoffed, rolling her eyes at Juliette. "Where would a diva like you be without them?"

"Your insults are as clumsy and unsubtle as your legato. A better remark would have been, 'Ugly sounds? The master schools the novice!' I might have felt a bit stung by that," Juliette snorted, as she leafed through the sheet music for Act Four. "Time for the fainting scene. You're giving Alfred your photograph to remember you by after he goes off to war, where he will surely die. Is that not tragic? Is that not depressing? Make me weep."

Juliette struck the introductory chords.

Carlotta had to suppress a grin. Strangely, she was beginning to relish Juliette's bullying. It was harsh, it was demeaning, but for the first time in Carlotta's life, she was able and encouraged to fight back. As she and Juliette traded acidic remarks, Carlotta could feel herself growing stronger, more confident. No one was going to stick up for her, and meekness was not something Juliette rewarded in the least.

Carlotta was learning that if she wanted something, she had to first request it, then demand it. Not once, but again and again, until she got it. Waiting patiently for recognition, reward, acknowledgement … this was the road to frustration. She didn't need to be rude, but she had to assert herself. And, deep within herself, she realized that this was something she had always wished to do.

She was becoming her own woman.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Erik steeled himself and unlocked the door to his mother's apartment. Today was the day. It couldn't be put off any longer; couldn't be denied or avoided for another day. He had to return to the nest.

Tomorrow was opening night of _Love Songs_. Today he had to begin to move his things into the small room that Nanette now occupied. Within the week, he would be ensconced in both his role as Alfred as well as his mother's apartment. By the end of the month, _Love Songs_ would close, he would receive his final paycheck, and his opera career would be over. His new job as full-time caretaker of his mother would have just begun, to continue until either he or she died.

"Nanette!"

Erik shook the girl's shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinking groggily.

"Pack up your things. I'm afraid your tenure with my mother has come to an end."

"Hmm?"

"You're fired, Nanette. I'll pay you for an extra week, since it's short notice."

"You finally moving in, Mr. Ballo?"

Erik nodded grimly.

Nanette rose and yawned her way to her room, not seeming put out in the least at having been fired.

"She'll be glad. It's all she's been talking about these last couple of weeks."

"Maman?" Erik called, moving down the dark hallway to his mother's bedroom.

"Erik?" her voice quavered from behind the door.

"I'm here, Maman."

Erik opened the door and entered, grabbing a chair to sit in. He settled in beside his mother's bed, unable to make eye contact.

"I've just fired Nanette. I'm going to start moving my stuff in tomorrow morning, before the premiere. I'm sorry I've been stalling for so long."

"Oh, my sweet boy, I'm so happy! You're really moving in today? You'll be here for dinner, and you'll sleep over and everything?"

His mother sounded happier than she had in weeks, but still he couldn't quite look at her.

"I can't sleep over. My clothes and things are still at my — at Daroga's apartment. But tomorrow night I will."

His mother grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"Oh, Erik! I've been so lonely. I've been so worried that you wouldn't come home to me. That I'd have to be alone, with no one to talk to for the rest of my life. Thank you, thank you so much."

Erik's throat tightened up as he looked into his mother's flushed, aging face. So … he was hers now. He'd serve out his days with his mother. He'd grow just as peculiar and terrified of the outside world as she was. It was only fitting, wasn't it? She'd given him life, he'd abandoned her to her tentative madness to tour Europe, and he'd tried to leave her isolated in this awful apartment so he could explore his love of Carlotta. Now, retribution had finally fallen on his head. He ought to accept it cheerfully. He fully deserved it, after all.

And anyway, without Carlotta, nothing out there in the wide, cold world seemed to hold much charm. How could he sing with anyone else, if every voice reminded him that he was not singing with her? How could he watch happy couples and young families pass him on the streets when every glimpse brought visions of Carlotta and her cousin comfortably paired and enjoying their children?

Erik blinked back unexpected tears and patted his mother's thin hand.

"You'll never be alone again, Maman. I promise."

"Shouldn't you be preparing for tomorrow?" Carlotta snapped at Juliette impatiently, as the leading lady yanked Carlotta's shoulders back and her adjusted the dramatic positioning of her arms for the seventh time. "Don't you prima donnas have opening night rituals and superstitions to obey?"

Juliette eyed Carlotta critically.

"Only on opening night itself — not the day before. You are too skinny. Have you no food in your home? Are you Italian immigrants utterly unfamiliar with the fattening pastas and wines of mother Italy? Now then, I want your _'It's strange!'_ to be utterly beseeching this time. And if you drop your arms or arch your back one whit, I'll put a heavy dictionary on your head and make you sing with it balanced there."

"Slave driver," Carlotta muttered, her arms aching.

She had to admit, however, that she had never before sung any part of Act Four of _Love Songs_ so movingly. Juliette's methods were aggravating, but they produced magical results.

"_It's_ _strange_!" Carlotta sang.

"_What_?"

Juliette made the reply in a ridiculous bass voice that had caused Carlotta laugh the first time she'd done it, but which Carlotta now found oddly heart-rending. Was she finally getting in touch with Vivianne as a real person, rather than just a role, as Juliette had been trying to browbeat her into doing?

"_The spasms of pain are … stopping_," Carlotta breathed, her arms reaching painfully to the imagined Alfred who was mere feet from her. "_Deep within in me, I feel…I feel strong!_ _I feel…that I will live! Oh joy —"_

Carlotta let her arms slowly drop and began to sway as if overcome.

"Good! Yes, but slower with the arms, slower … yes, and to the floor."

Carlotta collapsed to the hard floor of Juliette's dressing room.

"Stay there. The curtain will be falling now … and the curtain has fallen."

Carlotta sat up, brushing at the sawdust and theatrical grime that never seemed to get swept from any of the dressing room floors. Juliette immediately slapped her hand on the lid of the piano.

"No! Did I tell you to get up yet? Preserve the illusion within yourself that you're in a dead faint. Back on the floor."

"I wish you were dead," Carlotta muttered, lying back down on the filthy floor.

"Ho, ho — you say that now, but wait till you see what I'm going to make you do next!" Juliette crowed from the piano bench.

"Do you need anything, Maman?" Erik asked, poking his head into his mother's bedroom and drying his hands with a dishtowel. "I've used up the last of the soap on all those dishes, so I thought I'd pop down to the shops. Maybe pick up some fresh fruit at the market, too."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Nanette never remembered to buy fruit. Is she gone yet?"

"Just a couple minutes ago."

Erik's mother crossed her arms petulantly. "

"Good. I never liked that girl. Will you get me some books, Erik? And maybe a newspaper? I'm terribly behind on the events of the day. And some milk — I haven't had fresh milk in so long."

"Sure, Maman." Erik slung the dishtowel over his shoulder. "You sure you'll be all right if I leave you? It'll be a good hour, hour and a half."

"I'll be fine," his mother flapped a hand at Erik, her smile piercing his heart. "I'm so glad I have someone with me now, Erik. I've been so lonely."

Erik smiled back as best he could and, sighing to himself, walked slowly to the kitchen to hunt for his wallet.

"No, no, no!" Juliette trumpeted, throwing her hands up in the air. "Are you sure you're a soprano? That kind of full-throated bellowing is more suited to a baritone. Are you a baritone?"

Carlotta scowled at the diva, vastly weary of the lesson, of Juliette, of _Love Songs_.

"Yes, Juliette, I'm a baritone. You've finally found out my greatest secret. I'm actually a man."

"Sarcasm is pointless. It accomplishes nothing and makes you look stupid. But, that seems to be your goal, what with those ineffectual flappings of your hands and that strained expression that you think passes for real, stage-worth agony. Do you know what you look like when you sing Act Three? You look like a slightly offended hen fluffing up her feathers."

Carlotta gazed at Juliette for a long moment. Then she reached out and grabbed her coat.

"Well, I see that this lesson has degenerated to pure insults and mocking. I have other things to do today."

Juliette raised her eyebrows at Carlotta in indignation.

"Did I dismiss you?"

"I'm dismissing myself."

Carlotta opened the door that led into the hall.

"The first thing you must learn if you intend to get anywhere in this business is to follow directions, girl," Juliette snapped.

Carlotta turned and raised a hand in unconscious imitation of Juliette.

"I follow my own directions. That's the first thing _you_ must learn, Juliette. And right now, I want to leave your obnoxious presence. Good afternoon,"

Carlotta slammed the door behind her and stomped out of the theater

It was still early: not yet five o'clock. The director had cancelled all rehearsals in order to give the singers a chance to rest their voices for tomorrow night's premiere. Carlotta was free until dinner.

What should she do? She was unaccustomed to having time to herself; time to do whatever she wished. What did she want to do, really?

The answer to that was swift and undeniable. She wanted to see Erik.

But that was impossible. He was gone from her life forever.

Wasn't he?

Carlotta sighed. She should just go on home and help Nonna with the housework. Maybe mend the hem on her old skirt, reattach the lace to her spring hat. But she really didn't want to do any of these things.

Carlotta stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and leaned against the nearest building. She had told Juliette that she followed her own directions. That did what she wanted, when she wanted. Was it true?

She wanted to see Erik, right now. Why shouldn't she do it? He would likely turn her away, or perhaps she wouldn't be able to find him. But why not try? What harm could it do?

Carlotta wracked her brain. Where did Erik live? She remembered only vaguely the long trip by foot that she and her father had taken that awful night that Benito had beaten Erik. There was no way she'd be able to find it again. She recalled from snippets of conversation that his mother lived mere blocks from the Giallo tenement. But in which building?

Zia might know. She kept up on the neighborhood news with more diligence than Carlotta. She would likely know if there was a non-Italian woman living in a nearby building.

Carlotta set her chin and began to walk toward the factory.

Benito was leaning against the crumbling brick building. When he saw her, he stood up straight,quickly, pocketing the penknife with which he had been trimming his fingernails.

"Carlotta? Why are you here?"

The instinctive shudder that his presence always inspired passed through Carlotta's entire body. She forced herself to ignore her distaste and fear, squared her shoulders, and pushed past her cousin.

"I got off work early, so I've come to collect Zia," she replied.

"She isn't off for another hour," Benito said, grabbing her upper arm to halt her. "Why're you really here?"

Carlotta eyed his hard hand with a weary expression.

"I'm really here because I'm off work early, and I thought Zia might want to go with me to visit a neighbor. She works hard all the time — why shouldn't she do something pleasant once in a while? Go home, Benito."

Benito's upper lip curled in a sneer.

"You ever try this kinda stuff when we're married, and I'll show you how I look when I get angry. You'll learn to be good real quick when we're married."

Carlotta pushed past him again and went through the employees' door. Benito was unwilling to follow, it seemed, so she hurried through the noisy, machine-filled space to her aunt.

"Zia!" she shouted over the din.

"Carlotta? What's wrong? Is Babbo sick?"

"No, I'm just off work early. Care to go on a little adventure with me?"

Her aunt's face lit up in a crafty smile.

"Certainly! I've had enough of this dump for one day."

Zia grabbed her coat and her timecard, shouting a farewell to her neighbors on the machine.

"Benito's lurking around outside for you," Carlotta informed her aunt.

Zia made a face.

"That little toad of a man! I bet he had a time of it, deciding whether to wait for his at the opera for his disrespectful fiancée or here for his shameful aunt."

Carlotta giggled, pushing the employee door open. Benito instantly was at her side.

"You can't leave work early, Zia. And you," he glared at Carlotta. "You should be at home getting dinner started and helping Nonna and —"

"Benito, please! You're giving me a headache," Carlotta replied, taking Zia's arm and starting down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

"Where are we going?" Zia whispered.

"Remember Erik said his mother lives around our place? I'm going to try to find her."

"Why?"

"So I can find him."

Benito jogged along behind them, his face annoyed.

"What are you two whispering?"

"I'm telling Zia where we're going."

Carlotta could see that Benito very much wanted to ask her to share that information with him, but he seemed to know the response he would get. He satisfied himself with muttering angrily in Italian and glaring at everyone who passed by the Giallos.

"Do you know where she lives?" Carlotta whispered.

"Hmm…I remember Daroga pointed her building out to me once. And old Mr. Cantellini told me a few months back that a strange woman who spoke no Italian had moved into his building — right on his floor, in fact."

"Which neighbor are you going to see?" Benito demanded, as they passed by the Giallo's tenement.

"A neighbor on another street."

"I don't like you fraternizing with folks from other streets."

Carlotta sighed but didn't respond.

Mr. Catenelli's building loomed on her right.s

"Is this the place, Zia?"

"Yes, I'm sure it is."

"Who lives here?" Benito demanded.

"Benito, go home!" Zia snapped.

Benito opened his mouth to respond, but Carlotta cut him off.

"Benito, follow us if you want, but you won't get through the front door."

The three climbed several flights of stairs, until Zia halted.

"This is Mr. Cantellini's floor. I think she is about two doors down from him …"

Zia counted doors, then tapped on a dirty, scarred one. Benito hovered behind Carlotta, his hot breath on her neck making her feel ill.

There was no answer at the door.

Carlotta raised her hand and knocked.

"Mrs. Ballo? I'm from the opera."

The door opened a crack and a frightened eye peered out at the Giallos.

"The opera? You know my boy?"

"That's right, I work with him. May we come in for a moment?"

The door opened wider, revealing a small, nervous woman. When her eyes fell upon Benito, she shrank back, gripping the doorjamb convulsively.

"Go wait outside, Benito," Carlotta snapped. "Show some respect for an older woman."

Benito went, yanking his cap off belatedly and mumbling an apology to Mrs. Ballo.

Carlotta and Zia entered the dingy apartment. Mrs. Ballo hovered anxiously behind her furniture, as if trying to keep a barrier between the strangers and herself.

"Is Erik in any trouble?" she asked fearfully,

"Oh no, not at all. I just needed to see him about … _Love Songs_." Carlotta replied, unable to take her eyes off of the dusty, untidy mess that laced the apartment.

Zia was less circumspect.

"Good Lord, when was the last time someone took a broom and dust cloth to this place?"

"Zia!" Carlotta exclaimed. "Mrs. Ballo, I wondered if I might ask you Mr. Ballo's address?"

"Address? Erik lives here now, but he's out." Mrs. Ballo clenched her hands together, her eyes roving wildly.

"Will he be back soon?"

"Oh yes, he's just down at the market."

"May we wait?"

Mrs. Ballo hesitated. She took a deep breath, visibly steeled herself and nodded. Carlotta sat and studied her hands uncomfortably. Zia began to roam the small apartment, frowning critically at the drapes, furnishings, and piles of old newspapers.

"Do you do the cleaning around here, Mrs. Ballo?"

"No. I had a girl who did it, but now Erik lives here, so I suppose he will."

"A man, clean?" Zia rolled her eyes. "You'll be knee-deep in this filth by the end of the month."

"Zia!" Carlotta exclaimed, shocked.

To her surprise, Mrs. Ballo laughed.

"Erik never was one for picking up after himself. Neither was his father, for that matter."

"And meanwhile, you're suffocating on dust. How long has it been since you opened the windows and aired this place out?"

"I can't open them," Mrs. Ballo said in a grave voice, her face more frightened than ever.

"Why not?" Zia inquired.

"I just can't!" Mrs. Ballo cried, gripping the back of an armchair as though she was afraid of falling.

Carlotta and Zia glanced at one another.

"All right. Well, give me a dust cloth. I can't bear to see such fine wood hidden under so many layers of dust."

"Zia, leave Mrs. Ballo's things alone," Carlotta hissed in horror as Zia ran the tip of her finger along the surface of an end table.

"But that's cedar — do you know how expensive that stuff is? All the dust is going to destroy the finish"

"Oh, what do you know about cedar? Stop touching things," Carlotta retorted.

"Maman, what's going on here?" a masculine voice said from the doorway.

Carlotta looked over her shoulder and saw Erik standing with an armload of groceries, his face alert and concerned. She rose, unable to speak.

"Ah, the incomparable Signore Bello! Our Carlotta has come to see you." Zia said with a wink, moving past Erik to fluff a battered pillow and smooth down the crocheted antimacassars on the couch.

"Carlotta," Erik breathed, astonished. "I … I … is anything wrong?"

"Could I talk to you for a moment? Alone?" Carlotta asked hesitantly, her bravado draining from her at the sight of his unwelcoming face.

"Sure," Erik replied, setting the sacks of food on the dining room table. "Maman, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Erik," his mother answered, eyeing Zia as she tidied the room. "The younger girl has a message from the opera for you, so I let her wait."

"Oh," Erik's voice betrayed a glimpse of disappointment, then he quickly covered it with a brisk, business-like wave of his hand. "Come down the hall, Carlotta. We can talk in my room."

Carlotta and Erik entered the tiny, dreary bedroom. Boxes and crates lay piled over every available inch of floor space. The only furniture was a small dresser and a bed that appeared to be an old army cot.

"Um …" Erik surveyed the room with embarrassment. "How about we step out onto the fire escape? Fresh air, and all that."

"All right."

Erik forced the window up all the way and climbed out onto the metal framework. He reached his hand through the window and hoisted Carlotta out.

The wind was brisk, almost cold, out on the fire escape. Carlotta shivered and folded her arms over her chest. Erik instinctively reached out his arm to put around her shoulders, but he made himself stop and put both hands in his pockets.

"So … you have a message for me? Did they call an emergency rehearsal?"

Carlotta shook her head, her face averted from his.

"I just wanted to see you."

"Oh."

Erik didn't know else what to say. He fidgeted a moment.

"Carlotta, I thought we agreed that it was for the best that we just …" Erik trailed off, seeing an unfamiliar light of conviction in Carlotta's eyes as she stared out at the Parisian sprawl. Her cheeks were painted a soft peach from the setting sun. She turned to face Erik, and he felt his heart leap uncontrollably in his chest.

"I know you're hurt, Erik," she said in a soft, strong voice. "I know that I lied to you by omission. You deserved better than such treatment. I'm sorry."

"Well … thank you for that," Erik replied, unable to pull his eyes away from hers. "But I don't see why you had to come here to say it. You could have told me at the opera."

"I wanted to see you. I miss you, Erik. I'll go away if you want me to, I'll stay out of your life if that's what you need me to do, but there is something I want to tell you first."

"What?"

"I love you Erik. I always will. Do you understand?"

Erik reached out a hand to her, then sighed and took a step away.

"Carlotta, it won't work. I told you, I can't marry you. Even if you were free, I can't. There's no way to — to trap me and force me into it."

"I know you can't marry me. I accept that. I just need to be with you, Erik."

Erik gripped the iron railing so tightly that the cold metal seemed to bite his flesh. Carlotta could see his shoulders shaking lightly from the intense control he was holding himself under.

"Are you playing with me again, Carlotta? Tell me the truth. Because if you are, it's damned cruel. You're offering something I want desperately, and if you can't take the … the whole journey with me, then I don't even want to start."

"Will you meet me somewhere tonight?" Carlotta laid a hand lightly on his back, sending a tremor through his entire body. "Somewhere that we can be alone?"

Erik turned to her and gripped her shoulders. His eyes searched her face frantically, looking for guile, deception, hesitation of any kind.

A smile tentatively grew on his lips.

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" he murmured.

"Tonight. About eight o'clock. Let's meet at the opera?"

"Oh, god, Carlotta!" Erik pressed his lips to hers greedily, his arms crushing her to his chest like a drowning man. "I love you, darling, I really do! I wish we could get married, I wish —"

"Shh," Carlotta touched his lips with her finger, her eyes bright. "Just hold me a moment, please. There'll be time to talk later."

Erik wrapped his arms around her and warmed her with his embrace, his face buried in her hair. Carlotta closed her eyes, abandoning herself to the precious sensations which only Erik could inspire.

Suddenly a loud shout from within the apartment made both of them start in alarm.

"No, no, no!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"Ha!" came a shout from inside the apartment. "Ridiculous!"

"That sounded like Maman," Erik said, frowning with concern. "I haven't heard her raise her voice like that in years."

"Oh no, what's Zia done now?" Carlotta groaned.

The two climbed through the window and hurried into the living room. Mrs. Ballo sat in an armchair shaking her head while Zia paced back and forth, her arms and mouth working double time.

"It's true, I tell you! The only way to reform the French political system is from within. And how can that be done, if the system excludes women, immigrants, the poor—"

"My dear, do you suppose your native Italy has found a better way? Have the socialists done such good that you would import Prime Minister Minghetti scheme?" Mrs. Ballo wagged a finger at Zia. "You have seen nothing of the world, know nothing of history as it is made."

"Maman, what's all the shouting about?" Erik asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

"Zia, how can you upset Mrs. Ballo so? In her own home," Carlotta cried in horror.

"No, no, it's perfectly all right. Miss Zia is a young woman of strong convictions … and incorrect ones, I might add," Mrs. Ballo said with a smile.

"Ha!" Zia replied, opening her mouth to resume her lecture before Carlotta clamped her hand over it.

Erik stared at his mother in wonder. He hadn't seen the strong, opinionated side of her for years — not since his father had died and she had immured herself in her apartment with her books and her newspapers and her sorrow. He glanced at Zia, an appreciative smile dawning on his face.

"I should go," Carlotta murmured, her hand daring to touch Erik's briefly. "I'll see you at the opera tonight, then?"

"At eight. By the employees' door," Erik replied, wishing he could kiss her. "You'll really come?"

"I swear it," Carlotta answered, turning to the door. "Zia, are you coming?"

"No! In fact, I won't budge from this spot until you, Mrs. Ballo, explain why France had to stage an entire revolution to abolish the aristocracy, and then immediately reinstated it. I believe you people enjoy being oppressed."

"Rubbish!" Mrs. Ballo countered, her eyes eager, a combative smile hovering about her lips. "Now, you are too young to remember, but before the unification of Italy, things there were very much as they are here in France …"

Erik closed the door gently behind Carlotta and moved to the grimy window so he could watch her walk home. Down in the street, he saw her step out onto the sidewalk, then out of the shadow of a nearby building, a young man stepped in front of her. She froze, her apprehension visible even from three stories up.

Erik watched as the two talked. They seemed to be arguing. Suddenly, the young man grabbed her arm roughly and hustled her down the sidewalk and out of Erik's sight.

"That must be Benito," Erik murmured to himself.

It was all he could do to keep himself from running downstairs and pushing the young man away from her. But he didn't want to bring more trouble down upon her.

Erik leaned his cheek against the cool glass. He would sooner throw himself off a bridge than handle Carlotta roughly. Behind him, his mother and Zia continued to argue good-naturedly. Without a word, he turned and wandered into the kitchen to put the groceries away and dream of what nightfall would bring.

In the other room, he could hear his mother's voice rising and falling with excitement.

"And there you have it: the historical dominance of France is based solely upon the improvement of our agricultural system."

"Well, maybe," Zia replied, skeptically. "But I still like my theory better."

Mrs. Ballo laughed.

"Theories come and go. The only real concern is how to live well now."

"True," Zia said. "And do you think you are living well now?"

Erik sighed and closed the kitchen door so he wouldn't have to hear his mother's dispiriting reply.

"I said, when's she coming back, Carlotta?" Benito shook her arm as the two walked swiftly to the Giallo tenement. "Babbo's gonna want to know, and I ain't standing around out front of that place all night waiting for her!"

"Why not? You seem to like waiting for us," Carlotta replied, looking directly at him.

Benito met her eyes, his narrowing dangerously.

"A woman shouldn't stray far from home," he replied through clenched teeth. "A woman should be glad to be with her family."

"Oh, for God's sake, Benito!" Carlotta exclaimed. "Zia is with a respectable older lady. It's five blocks to home. She can come when she's ready."

Carlotta opened the door to their building and began to climb the stairs. Benito was silent behind her, only the sound of his heavy footfalls reaching her ears. And yet, she could feel his eyes raking her back. Tearing at it. She jogged up the stairs faster, wanting nothing more than the safety of Babbo and Nonna and Mamma.

"Povera ragazza," she heard Benito growl behind her. "The things I'll have to do to you."

Two hours later, Carlotta stood daydreaming at the kitchen table, swathed in an apron and misty-eyed from the unevenly sliced onions that lay scattered across the scarred wood.

"Carlotta, hand me the onion and I'll cut it. You're making me nervous, the way you're swinging that knife around."

Carlotta handed her mother the half-chopped onion and the knife, stepping to the stovetop to take her place.

"Sorry, Mamma. I guess I'm a little distracted tonight. Tomorrow's opening night, after all."

"I could never eat from the morning before opening night. Then, when I got home from the performance, I devoured everything in the house! Remember, Madre?"

"E vero, mia bella," Nonna laughed, nodding.

Carlotta smiled at her mother and grandmother, her heart light with excitement and nervousness … but not about opening night at the opera. She slowly stirred the pasta, her eyes half closed. She would never feel ashamed of anything she and Erik did. She loved him, and she knew that he loved her. How could it be wrong, if there was only love in their hearts?

"Where is that Zia?" Babbo grumbled, striding through the kitchen. "Out visiting some woman, tells no one when she's coming home … that girl will bring me to an early grave, I tell you."

"Don't fret, Babbo," Mamma soothed as she poured the onions into the sauce for the pasta. "Carlotta and Benito both said it's an older woman she's with, so it can't be anything bad she's up to."

From his perch on the window frame, Benito gazed malevolently at Carlotta, making her squirm. He'd been staring at her ever since they got back from Mrs. Ballo's. It was beginning to unnerve her.

"It's bad she makes the entire family wait for dinner because she's not here. It's bad we're all hungry with our food getting cold. Well, basta por esso! We start without her," Babbo barked.

Mamma cleared the table and the family sat. Carlotta lugged the pot of pasta over and they began to eat in an uncomfortable silence. Every time she glanced at her father, his eyes were riveted upon the door. Every time she looked at Benito, his eyes were on her. She picked at her food, her stomach suddenly queasy.

Suddenly the door flew open with a bang.

"Famiglia," Zia trumpeted. "I have returned with thrilling news. I am moving out!"

"Great heavens!" Mamma cried, rising involuntarily from her chair.

"Santi Jesu, Maria e Giuseppi!" roared Babbo, also rising.

"Mrs. Ballo has opened my eyes," Zia declared, throwing her coat over Babbo's favorite chair. "She's a brilliant woman, just a bit debilitated. But I'm going to help her with that. She has hired me as her new companion. I shall be moving into her apartment by the end of the week."

"What!?" Babbo cried.

"Oh my God, Zia! What can you be thinking?" Mamma gasped.

"_Dove vai? Dove vai mia Zerlina? Ah, che travestia_!" Nonna began to sob.

Chaos enveloped the family. Zia was shouting, Babbo was shouting. Nonna wept and Mamma tried to quiet everyone down. Carlotta glanced around her, then quietly grabbed her coat and slipped out the door.

She hurried through the dark streets, her heart thundering in her ears. In less than an hour, she and Erik would be together. She fairly flew up one street, then down another. Before she knew it, the tall, grim façade of the opera loomed above her. She quickened her pace, excitement and delicious anticipation fueling her every step.

Suddenly, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

Carlotta let out a startled scream, spinning around to see Benito hovering above her.

"Benito!" she cried as he pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her bodily off the ground.

"I knew you were going to the opera — I knew you were going to see him, you bitch! I won't have it. You're mine, you hear me? Mine!"

He locked his thick arm around her waist and began to drag her into the alley beside the employees' entrance.

"No, Benito! Stop — please!"

"You're my woman, no one else's," Benito growled, throwing her down on the hard, damp pavement.

Instantly his body was over hers, his rough lips pressing her face and mouth. Carlotta struggled, trying to push him off of her. He was too heavy, too strong for her.

"I ain't waiting anymore," Benito panted, pulling her skirt up over her knees. "You'll be my wife tonight!"

Carlotta screamed, her mind blank with horror and outrage. Suddenly, just as Benito's hand wandered up the inside of her thigh, he flew off of her.

Erik stood over her cousin, his face red.

"Don't you ever touch her again, you hear me? If you ever hurt her —"

Benito kicked out at Erik, catching him in the shin. Erik let out a yelp, then dove onto Benito. The two rolled over the rough cobblestones for a moment, then Carlotta heard Benito shriek in pain. The solid sound of a punch being landed came to her ears, then another.

One of the men scrambled to his feet and took off running down the alley. Carlotta sobbed into her hands, too terrified to look and see who was still with her.

"Carlotta? Are you all right?"

She felt gentle hands on her shoulders. She uncovered her eyes.

"Erik!" she sobbed. "He — he —"

Erik clutched her to his chest.

"It's all right, he's gone. It's all over."

"I — I want to go hide somewhere," she wept. "I want to hide with you …"

Twenty minutes later, Erik led Carlotta up a dim flight of steps and unlocked the door to the apartment he had shared with Daroga for the past year.

"Well, well, the prodigal son returns! And he's brought someone," Daroga rose from a threadbare armchair with a smile and a bow for Carlotta. "Well, Miss Carlotta, I see you've succumbed to Erik's sweet voice yet again."

"Hello, Daroga," she said tremulously.

"Is it all right if Carlotta stays here tonight? She had a … run-in with her cousin," Erik said.

Daroga's face creased in concern.

"What happened?"

"He … Benito, my cousin … he tried to … rape me."

"Stay here as long as you need to," Daroga said firmly. "Does he live with you?"

Carlotta nodded.

"You're not going home until it's safe, in that case. But I have no manners — sit, take your coat off, please."

Erik helped Carlotta off with her coat and settled her into the armchair. Daroga knelt in front of her, his eyes serious.

"Erik told you I'm a police officer, right?"

Carlotta nodded.

"So you know you can trust me."

"Of course. You're Erik's friend."

Daroga nodded, glancing at Erik, who was standing protectively behind Carlotta.

"What's your cousin's name?" Daroga asked.

"Benito Giallo."

"Benito Giallo?" he repeated, shock written over his features. "Benito Giallo, who works for Francesco Santanelli?"

Carlotta frowned.

"I think so. I saw him with a man once that he called Mr. Santanelli. He was … horrible."

She shivered, relieved to feel Erik's hands gently caress her shoulders.

Daroga's dark eyes gleamed with excitement.

"We've been trying to apprehend his gang for months! Nobody's ever come forward. Are willing to press charges against your cousin? Would you testify against him—not just for tonight, but anything else you know he has done?"

Carlotta hesitated.

Her family would never forgive her if she betrayed her cousin to the police. They would disown her. She would be dead to them.

But right now, she was as good as dead. Benito would beat her to death the next time he saw her.

"I know about many, many things that he's done. I've seen him do awful things to people."

"And don't forget about me," Erik added. "He's the one who rearranged my face with his fists."

"But that still doesn't answer my question," Daroga said, looking into Carlotta's eyes intently. "Will you testify against your cousin? You'll have to stand up in court, in front of him and the members of his gang, and you'll have to tell the judge exactly what he has done. Your family will be upset with you. Can you stand that?"

Carlotta sat very still, her mind moving slowly. She could picture it clearly: Babbo's smoldering rage when she announced that she had gotten her cousin and future husband arrested, Benito's sneer as she testified, the smirks of disbelief from the people in the courtroom. It wasn't going to be easy. It might even destroy her.

Slowly, she nodded.

"I … yes," she heard her voice say. "I can do it. He's a bad person. He needs to go to prison. I want him out of my life, out of my family."

Erik's hands were strong and comforting on her shoulders. She could do anything with him at her side. He was her support, her strength.

"All right, then," Daroga said, patting her knee in a brotherly way. "I'll round up my boys and we'll grab Benito before he has a chance to disappear. Don't you worry: by dawn, we'll have him singing like a canary at the police station."

"You be careful, Daroga," Erik warned. "He's brutal."

Daroga yanked on his dark police uniform jacket and grabbed his hat.

"Not to worry. He'll never know what hit him."

Daroga slammed the door. His footsteps pounded down the stairs, then echoed away to stillness.

Erik moved around the chair and knelt on the rug, taking Carlotta's hands in his.

"Are you sure about this, Carlotta? Your family —"

"My family has turned a blind eye to what he's been doing for years. I think they would gladly have done the same when I started turning up with black eyes and bruises all over my body. They just don't want to believe the little boy they raised could have grown into a vicious, brutal man."

Erik pressed her palm to his lips.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, but I'm glad he's going to be out of your life."

"I'll be a free woman. Free," Carlotta breathed.

She gazed over Erik's head at the dark windows, her heart soaring. No longer would her future be confined to childbirth, housework, and misery. She could study singing with a teacher less viperish than Juliette, or travel to Italy, or —

"Carlotta," Erik said softly, interrupting her reverie. "I still can't marry you, even if Benito is locked away for the rest of his life. My mother …"

Carlotta lightly touched his lips with her finger.

"We can't think see the future. Maybe someday …" Carlotta smiled, reaching for Erik, her lips grazing his. "Anything can happen. For now, we have this."


End file.
